


Under Violet Roses

by orphan_account



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 05:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: At the age of eighteen, Vergil stood at a crossroads: continue his pursuit for Sparda's power, or seek out the source of the mysterious pull that urges him back to Fortuna. While one path may guide him to victory in the form of vengeance exacted against the demon who took his family's life, the other only leads him in the direction of the most perilous quest of all: the life of a single father.—alternatively:Vergil used to like Nero until he became a teenager; and then the brother he thought has been dead for almost two decades casually drops in to ruin what's left of Vergil's life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY. I've been playing with the idea for this fic since April but had no actual time to start writing it until summer casually waltzed in and gave me a breather. 
> 
> The original intention was to craft a universe in which Vergil didn't get fucked left and right by life and every other force out there, which inadvertently tipped the scales for everyone else in the DMC universe. This is _eventually_ going to be a DV romance, but that's a-ways ahead. For now, it's mostly Vergil trying to be a dad and more or less failing at it. Because, of course, I'm not letting him off that easy.

A wave of red moves across the marble floor with nothing but a whisper, leaving a trail of base desire in its wake. It dances to a tune composed of want and inevitable regret, a slow and reckless seduction far more alluring than the ancient tomes resting against stone walls.

Skirts lift to expose long, pale limbs not meant to be seen, much less touched, within a hidden room in the cold and loveless castle of an island best left isolated from the world. But the bed dips with shared weight, groans when red dresses and blue coats are discarded – not in the name of love, nor passion, but impersonal business. An exchange of carnal release for knowledge.

It lingers, when it is all said and done. When the candles burn out and the moon is full, and there is nowhere to go, no leads to follow – it lingers. An invitation to stay as long as he needs, the promise of unobstructed studying offered on a platter along with warm meals. 

He stays. For days, for weeks, for months, until he finds an answer, a piece for the board he hopes to build and shape to his bidding. 

There is a goal to pursue and the woman prompts him to do so, but she does so with a mask that hides unspoken grief.

Son of Sparda, she says, with pale curls falling over bare shoulder, is this truly not enough? Did your father not love a human woman? Is godhood truly more desirable than the warmth of a home?

His declares his answer in the form of a door clicking shut and the sound of heavy boots against an uneven cobblestone road.

_____________________________

The libraries of Fortuna Castle held very little information of the demonic kind. Unsurprising yet disappointing, considering his father’s alleged lordship over the land centuries ago.

However, all was not a waste of his time. Hidden within the pages of an unmarked tome drowned with dust, the name Temen-ni-gru.

It isn’t the most concrete of plans, but Vergil trusts that with this name he will be able to locate what he needs and truly begin what he has set out to achieve for the better part of his life. His quest to attain his father’s power may well and truly, finally, be on its way.

He has agreed to meet with a contact, a man who has promised him ample wealth in the form of hidden and archaic knowledge. The man, albeit human, wrote him of rituals and rites privy to scholars of the otherworldly; a rarity in this day in age. He wouldn’t go as far as to consider him an ally, but a convenience. Yet another tool readily at his disposal.

Lightning cuts the sky and heralds the rainstorm, the ominous clouds crowding his path towards the docks where his ticket to the new world awaits. With Yamato on his back, Vergil holds the bag of priceless books tightly in hand as he resolutely makes his way towards what will be the beginning of everything. His beginning, the fall of the principality who took his family, and his consequent rise to the throne.

One foot in front of the other, he marches with the single-mindedness of a man driven mad by obsession, a man who has nothing left to lose and everything to gain. While failure isn’t an option, were he to perish in the ultimate skirmish, then so be it – he dies, but Mundus dies with him. Let the Underworld destroy itself, let it invade and annihilate the human world above so long as Vergil has extracted his long-awaited revenge.

He may not be close, but he has finally reached the threshold that will lead him to it, and nothing, no god nor devil, can stop him.

Not even the incessant tug in his gut adamant in preventing him of even fantasizing of what he will do once he learns the secrets to erecting the tower and opening the Hell Gate.

It’s as troubling as it is annoying. A thorn buried in his side by the human woman who had granted him access to the libraries. He doesn’t quite understand it, how it comes and goes like a heartbeat vibrating in his blood. It draws him back towards the small house at the center of the city, this attachment he has no control over.

Despite the absence of any sort of emotional bond towards the woman, Vergil is grateful for her assistance. She granted him refuge, space, and all kinds of human sustenance from food, to clean laundry, to sex. At the beginning of their arrangement, Vergil was suspicious of her intentions. She tended to look at him with a gleam in her eye that was almost motherly, and she tried again and again to dote on him in ways that made him lock to the door to the study. There was never any ill intent, but Vergil merely thought the distractions unnecessary.

It isn’t until recently, perhaps mere weeks ago, when the pull began. The gripping wave that rises and falls like scorching sand underneath his skin. It is almost unbearable, nearly familiar, and even as he continues his trek, it calls to him like a song.

However, Vergil is good at ignoring and repressing. Some of the first things he learned to do long ago in order to allow himself to move on. Ignore the voices, discard the feelings. Rely only on the calculated plans and the desired outcomes.

Thunder rumbles and so do the pebbles below his feet.

This far out of the city, it is desolate. Nobody travels this late in the day, much less in the middle of the week. The storm will undoubtedly scare any stray individuals back into the safety of their homes.

Rain falls harder, coming in sheets of gray that limit visibility. A wind picks up, turning dirt and debris into projectiles in the storm. Its howl gives Vergil pause.

He stands at the last intersection before the docks, the one with a path that leads back Fortuna’s bustling inner city. He listens to the wind and the accompanying sensation of a nail dragging along his spine, erupting gooseflesh as a response. Static that has nothing to do with the weather settles along his limbs, and Vergil knows what it means.

This is no ordinary storm. He can feel and smell the sulfuric stench of demons.

What transpires in Fortunate is no longer his concern. The island can burn to the ground, for all he cares. He has what he came here for safely in hand. It is not his responsibility to intervene. The humans can either fend for themselves or they cannot. The strong will survive, and the weak will perish, as nature intended since the beginning.

The docks are less than a mile away. There, he can wait out the storm until the captain deems it safe enough to embark to the neighboring continent. He is but a mere thirty minutes away.

The tug ceases.

The difference is so stark and violent Vergil nearly drops his bag. The constant thrum falls silent, leaving a deafening resonance in its wake. But then, within a single breath, it returns. It’s weaker now, a mere whisper, and it is curiosity that lures Vergil into reconsidering his plan of action.

No, he tells himself, nearly boiling over with a sudden surge of lividity at his own lapse in concentration.

It does not matter.

It is useless. Meaningless. He has run into burning houses before and found nothing but dead mothers and nightmares that have lasted lifetimes. Only, here, these people mean nothing. It isn’t worth his time or effort.

Removing Yamato from his back, Vergil grips it until the leather sheath leaves imprints on the palm of his hand.

Turning in the direction of the docks, Vergil solidifies his resolve.

Destiny awaits him there. Triumph, as he avenges his father, his mother, and his twin brother. The gaping hollow that has carved itself into Vergil’s being may never be filled, but he will relish in the dying breaths of the enemy. It will be enough. He will sit upon a throne and rule the Underworld as is his birthright, the blood and power of the Dark Knight blazing within.

The crossroads he stands on awaits his final judgment, silent and still as opposed to the raging storm surrounding him.

Vergil doesn’t know what changes; doesn’t know what possesses him to turn his back to the docks and begin his return to Fortuna, sword and books in hand. 

He doesn’t hurry, assuming the same leisurely pace as before even as the thrum in his blood grows fainter.

_____________________________

Vergil is familiar with the scent of burning in the aftermath of his presence. Wherever he goes, demons tend to follow. Perhaps it is the Yamato that calls to them, or the potential taste of his blood that is yet to be spilled. Half human, half demon – a promising feast for any lesser cretin lucky enough to catch him off guard. None have succeeded.

The sight of burning homes, however, is one that never ceases to make ugly emotions ball up and thrash wildly in his chest. The wounds of that dreaded day bleed anew, the nightmare a fresh taste on the back of his tongue.

He stands in the doorway as the distant wailing of demons drift in and out amidst the chaos of screaming townsfolk and the crackle of fire as it consumes the quaint residential community. The heat is near unbearable, reaching for him in desperate hunger. Within the blinding scenery he can see phantoms of his past; his mother telling him to stay away, to run far and never return.

In reality, the burning house is quiet with no evidence of life within the crumbling walls. What was has now perished.

Still, the thrum remains. That faint resonance is maddening as it pulses in the back of his head, not so much as inviting, but obligating him to walk through the flames and seek it out.

Books cast aside and sword in hand, Vergil enters the inferno in search of an answer. What he finds are unblemished walls and a trail of blood, one he follows with plenty of unease weighing down on him. The flames weren’t imagined, of this much he’s certain.

The trail leads him to the body of the woman who so readily opened her doors for him to stay. Her pale hair is tangled and bloodied, her dress in tatters and legs bent in unnatural ways. Lifeless eyes wide and glossy, Vergil can tell she hasn’t been dead long, the rosiness still lingering in her cheeks.

He spares her only a moment before deciding to move along, but that sensation roots him to the spot.

Irritated, Vergil looks down at her once more. It is then that he sees it, such an obvious presence that makes him wonder how he never noticed it before. She hid it well, with large dresses and demure shawls, noticeable absences whenever Vergil did roam the hallways of the small house.

Kneeling beside her, Vergil tentatively presses his palm to her swollen belly. He immediately pulls away when he feels a push against it.

He knows just enough to understand the implications of what he’s witnessing, and if he’s to act, he must do so quickly or else risk both mother and child perishing.

_Child._

The word makes him freeze up.

She may have been a promiscuous woman, with plenty of lovers aside from Vergil, but there is no denying the connection that slowly weaves together before his very eyes. It is unlike anything he has ever experienced, an almost physical sensation that loops and twists and ties itself tight enough to choke. It settles deep in his bones, digging out ridges in his spine, becoming an intrinsic part of his very biology.

Within this woman’s womb is his child, and Vergil is at a loss of what to do. There is no way he can get her out, not when the chorus of demons slinks closer and closer the more time passes. It occurs to him then that this is a trap, that he was lured back here, presented with this dilemma that would stun him just long enough for whoever, or whatever, to strike.

For a flash of a moment, Vergil is overcome. The mixture of dark emotions bubbles dangerously close to the surface, nearly drowning him with the fears and anxieties he shouldered as a child. For that moment, he feels so devastatingly human, so hopelessly mortal and weak, encased within his phobia of burning homes and dead mothers.

He acts without thought, wielding Yamato and hoping for the best.

The gore that bursts around him is sickening, his blade covered in the blood of an innocent. He searches blindly, his hands pushing and pulling until finally he finds it – finally feels the light that blinds his eyes and burns his fingertips. It’s in his hands now, and Vergil can hardly tell if it’s a living thing or just another organ.

He tries to still the shaking of his hands and the quivering of his shoulders. He tries not to analyze the scene before him, what it is he’s done, what currently rests feeble and useless in his hands. Then, the bloody mess begins to cry, and Vergil hears the sudden shift of dragging chains and demonic snarling coming closer.

With no other option, Vergil takes the woman’s shawl and wraps the child in it. He shushes it, but the cry only becomes ear-shattering.

He considers his options, but there isn’t anywhere to go. The windows are barricaded from the outside, the back door is now engulfed in flames, and the only way out is now swarmed with demons. Vergil sees nothing of note as he’s pushed into a corner, the mass wielding scythes in skeletal hands screeching as they charge at him.

Widening his stance and standing his ground, Vergil readies the Yamato with his available hand, and steps into the fray.

_____________________________

When night comes and the rain once again pours from the heavens, Vergil walks down the desolate streets in the direction of the only other person he’s ever interacted with during his extended stay in Fortuna. The librarian had once mentioned his wife being a governess.

It isn’t much, but it’s the best he can do given the circumstances. Pulling the hood of his cloak further down his face, Vergil brings the child closer to his chest to shield it from the deluge.

He has spent the last several hours debating what to do, weighing the consequences of his actions and attempting to fathom what kind of life he will lead were he to keep it. It is his, which undoubtedly means it is not entirely human. He can’t bring himself to kill it; Eva’s punishing gaze burning into his back. But he can’t afford to keep it, either. He has plans. Vengeance to exact, power to obtain. Being responsible for a child throws a wrench in all of it. Family is a weakness he does not have the luxury to partake in, this much he knows. With his father dead, his mother and brother murdered and then set aflame, his companion meeting the same grizzly end…

Something out there is watching him and is adamant on destroying everything that belongs to him.

Vergil cannot afford to bond with a child. A child of his blood. His—Vergil stops in his tracks, peeling away the shawl to peer down at it – his _son_.

Sighing, he continues. He walks across the city, cutting through alleyways and dark corners, keeping away from what little public wanders about.

He wastes no time knocking on the library door, repeatedly, loudly, until the doors finally open with a click and a creak. An elderly woman looks up at him through the crack, her cloudy eyes going wide behind her glasses. “Goodness.”

Vergil is aware of what he looks like: a teenager drenched in blood and soaked to the bone, sporting a shredded coat hidden beneath a ruined cloak. There are cuts on his face and arms, his hair is stuck to his forehead in an unkempt mess. His sword is unsheathed, and there is a sleeping newborn tucked against his chest.

“I need help,” he says, swallowing his pride and for once accepting that this human is far more knowledgeable than he. “Please.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erecting a demon tower in hopes of gaining a powerful demon's power to destroy an even more powerful demon may sound difficult and convoluted, but have you ever tried raising a kid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a lot of self-control not to write 30k on father-son shenanigans alone. Who knows, tho, I may end up writing tiny ficlets set during the time period of Nero's childhood. For the sake of "brevity" however, have a montage and prepare your hearts.

Nero is two years old when Vergil decides that he cannot continue to raise his son as any respectable demon would raise their offspring, not if he wants him to succeed in the human world as well amongst demonkind. He comes to this decision when he attempts to pry the child out of his hiding spot atop the bookshelf, and Nero reacts by screeching and trying to scratch away the arm reaching for him.

The feral behavior has scared away most of the wet nurses that he allows to come and go, mostly due to his inability to grant a toddler most of its base needs. Vergil likes to think he has gotten progressively better in caring for Nero, however. He feeds him, bathes him, and puts him to bed.

That’s more than Sparda ever did for him.

* * *

At age three, Nero won’t stop repeating everything Vergil says. He briefly debates whether or not it’s too late to place him in the nearby orphanage.

* * *

On his fourth birthday, he pretends to play Vergil’s violin and snaps the strings, unaware of his strength. Vergil gets him his own and they practice together, until the landowner kindly asks them to refrain from doing so. It isn’t long after that Vergil finally taps into the fortune he’s discreetly set aside from his mercenary days, thankful that his younger self didn’t squander it as any other teenager would have.

The manor is far bigger than it has any need to be, especially for a man in his early twenties and his four-year-old son, but it’s the location that draws Vergil to it. It’s set apart from the main city, a twenty-minute walk from the docks but still settled on Fortuna’s shore. It has both a front yard and a back yard, all of it fenced in elegant wrought iron. There are rose bushes and evergreen trees all around it, reminiscent of a painting in a museum. There’s a small pier in the back.

“What do you think?” Vergil asks Nero, who is currently propped on his hip.

“The tree looks big. Can you put a swing on it?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I like it.”

Having reached an agreement, Vergil purchases the manor on the following day.

* * *

When Nero turns five and the world is quiet and still, suspended in a bubble of eternal sunlight and cool ocean breeze, Vergil mounts the Yamato above the fireplace.

Nero sits on the lounge chair with an open book resting on his crossed legs. He pouts down at it as he tries his hardest to enunciate the words on the page. “So sung a little Clod of… Clo—Clay. T… Tr… Troh—”

“Trodden,” Vergil says.

“Trodden with the… cats fee-et—”

“Trodden with the cattle’s feet, but a Pebble in the brook warbled out these metres meet.”

Nero sighs and recites the rest from memory. “Love seeketh only self to please.”

“Very good, Nero.”

“Can I go play now?”

Vergil glances at the clock on the wall and then pointedly back at his son. “It’s only ten in the morning. Your lesson isn’t over for another hour—”

“And then lunch, and then another two hours of lessons.”

“Don’t interrupt me.”

Nero bites his bottom lip. “I’m sorry, father,” he says, eyes fixed on the splayed book.

The boy has gotten dangerously adept at getting what he wants using various methods of manipulation Vergil is still unsure where he learned from, and he often must remind himself not to fall for it. Especially when his eyes grow wide and gleaming with unshed tears.

“You say you want to go to school and yet you hardly want to do your readings.”

“There are other things to read beside poetry in school. And you don’t just read in school. You can practice music and draw and make friends.”

“It’s all so overrated,” Vergil says, turning his back to him with a frown. Truth is, after five years of constant companionship, Vergil has no idea how he’d spend his days if not looking after Nero. Eva had tutored him throughout his childhood up until the day she perished. He can do the same for his own son.

There is also the elephant in the room that Vergil is yet to address, mostly because Nero isn’t conscious of the fact that his right arm is in no way normal by human standards. Nero knows of his heritage, as Vergil refuses to omit the truth of what they are, and he is also aware of how most humans perceive the demonic. But Nero is only five. Bright eyed and headstrong, he continuously states that none of it matters because he is a good boy.

Vergil is cautious whenever they leave the manor, wrapping up Nero’s arm in bandages and making certain he always wears long sleeves. Nero never fights it, but the sad pinch in his brow makes Vergil scoop him up and tell him tall tales of legendary Dark Knights and daredevil mercenaries as they walk to the market for groceries. It never fails to bring a smile to Nero’s face.

* * *

At the age of seven, Vergil takes him to the library. “You’re old enough to read the covers on your own. Pick what you want.”

To his eternal dismay, Nero grabs a variety of comic books.

The librarian stands by Vergil, his ruddy face turning darker with amusement as Nero peruses the shelves with wide eyes and a brilliant smile. “Very noble of you to let him choose what he wants.”

“Your wife insists it’s a surefire way to keep him from rebelling.”

The librarian clicks his tongue. “Harriet does know a thing or two about children. Then again, none of our seven kids write us. Make of that what you will.”

“Your adeptness with books clearly doesn’t apply to your skills as a father,” Vergil says stiffly, crossing his arms as he keeps an eye on Nero from a distance.

The librarian laughs despite himself. “That’s what she said. Always blaming it all on me. Consider yourself lucky there’s no lady in your life to constantly point out your flaws.”

“No need. My son already draws pleasure from doing so.”

Vergil signs the roster once Nero has made his selection.

* * *

He’s ten years old when he takes Vergil’s sword off the wall without permission.

Nero clumsily swings it around him, trying to hold it as any child would hold a sword that’s too big for their hands and too tall for their body. He spins on his heels and jabs it forward, tripping with the momentum and nearly falling in the mud. “Crap!”

“Your form needs work,” Vergil says, finally announcing his presence.

Nero jumps back, surprised, and drops the weapon. “Dad! I didn’t—I thought you were in the music room.”

“Which makes it okay for you to take my sword and nearly impale yourself with it.”

“I, well, no. I wasn’t going to impale myself.”

“Of course not.” Vergil stands there, hands clasped behind his back, waiting.

“Okay. Fine. I just really wanted to see what it’s like to use a sword. Credo said—”

“Credo?” Vergil says, taken aback.

Nero blinks up at him with something akin to horror in his eyes. He stammers before catching on his words, squaring his shoulders and standing ramrod straight. Clearing his throat, he makes hesitant eye contact with Vergil. “He’s a boy I met at the library.”

It all makes sense now. After tedious conversations and laid out rules, Vergil has begun allowing Nero unaccompanied trips to the library with the intention of him studying in an environment that is not the same walls of their home day in and day out. The librarian promised to keep tabs on the boy, alerting Vergil that he has come into the library when expected, but beyond that, Vergil trusted Nero to behave himself by obeying his orders.

Clearly, he was mistaken.

He stares Nero down with thinly concealed anger at the blatant betrayal. “Is he?”

Nero’s fists clench by his sides. “Yeah! He’s really nice and smart and he wants to be my friend. I said he could because I didn’t have any! It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. I am studying for lessons. I haven’t gotten a single bad mark on my exams and you know that.”

“Clearly they’re not challenging enough.”

“Do your worst!” Nero yells, kicking the sword in the direction of the sand. “You can’t stop me from making friends! There’s other people out there other than you!” He storms off towards the manor, slamming the back door shut behind him.

Vergil doesn’t move from where he’s been rooted by the words.

Of course, he never expected to be the sole person in Nero’s life. There’s been his nurses, the governess, the librarian, and the market vendors they are on a first name basis with. Those must count for something.

He sighs. All he’s ever asked for is Nero’s honesty, albeit there’s never been an opportunity for him to be dishonest. He tried his damndest for the past ten years to make their relationship as open as possible, to make matters work despite having the emotional range of a lifeless rock himself. He admits to having implemented elements of his own upbringing, the kind he lived through after the death of his family, but he figured it would help in teaching Nero how to be more independent and self-sufficient.

All the while preventing him from being just that.

He knew being a single father would be complicated, but he never expected his plans to unravel as quickly as they have. Either way, Nero has always been temperamental, and he will eventually come around once he’s acknowledged his mistake.

Picking Yamato off the ground and cleaning her with the end of his robes, he heads inside and places it back on the wall.

It isn’t until the evening that Vergil leaves the manor and makes for the library, knocking loudly despite the hour. When the door opens, he boldly announces: “Markus, we need to have a word.”

The librarian gestures for him to enter. “What seems to be bothering you at this hour, Master Vergil?” At the lack of an immediate response, the man leads them across the spacious area filled with dozens of floor-to-ceiling shelves covered in countless books. Markus turns off the lone lamp on the check-out counter, then guides him to the living area towards the back of the building. “I hope everything is alright. Nero left not an hour ago. I know you tend to prefer him to be home before sundown.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Vergil says, stepping into the sparsely furnished parlor. “Harriet lied.”

“Oh ho there, son. That is a bold assumption to make of my old wife. She may be senile, but she is no liar.”

Vergil sheds his coat and takes the seat closest to the fire, a ritual they’ve done since the night he arrived at their doorstep ten years ago, whenever he needs guidance of the human kind. He crosses his legs and thoughtfully cradles his chin in a hand as Markus pours him a glass of wine. “Nero has been conspiring against me.”

The painting on the wall is crooked, and the woman featured in it stares down at him judgmentally.

“Nero is ten,” Markus says in a tone that kindly requests Vergil to be less dramatic about the situation. “What can possibly make you think he is conspiring against you, and how does this involve Harriet?”

Vergil takes the glass but doesn’t drink from it, balancing it on his knee instead as he stares at the fire. “I have gone against every grain that molds me, accepting your advice in hopes of properly raising this child. I have laid my trust in you, only to have it all come to this.”

“What happened, Vergil?”

“Nero made a friend.”

“Oh, that’s terribly tragic. Whatever is to be done about that?”

Vergil glares at the man. “I don’t appreciate the mockery.”

“My apologies. It just seems, pardon the expression, melodramatic.”

“He explicitly disobeyed me,” Vergil defends, turning his attention back to the fireplace. “He’s never done this. All because he met a boy.”

“Credo, I assume.”

His grip on the glass tightens, and Vergil reminds himself to be mindful of his strength. “The very one.”

Markus pours himself a glass of scotch and leans against the sturdy frame of the fireplace, making sure he’s directly within Vergil’s line of sight. He’s a big man, wider than he is tall, and the bald spot above his head glistens with sweat. He is also affable, carrying himself with the grace of a man who knows that everything is transient, yet nothing loses its value because it is so. Vergil has become unspeakably fond of him.

“The orphanage occasionally brings the younger children to spend the day among books. Credo, despite being an orphan himself, serves as chaperon to the younglings. He and Nero hit it off quite well in the classics section. Very well read. Extremely educated.”

“That’s not the point.”

“My point,” Markus says, taking a swig of his drink, “is that Nero is in good company. He has never wandered off, never gone places he shouldn’t have. He is still the good little boy you’re raising, Master Vergil, he’s simply made a friend. And, in my personal opinion, it will serve him well.”

Vergil scoffs. “Have any of your seven children contacted you lately?”

“Now, now, there’s no need to stoop to pettiness.” Markus grabs his belt and uses it to hike up his pants. “There is no one right way to parenting, I’m afraid. Kids don’t come with a how-to manual. Each head is a different world, and all we can do is do the best we can do. Nero will talk back, he will question your rules, he will push boundaries, he will break your heart. That’s what children do. What defines you as a parent is how you choose to face these battles. Unfortunately, Harriet and I can’t tell you how to do so.”

“Fighting the legions of the Underworld would have been easier.”

“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Vergil finishes the rest of his drink in silence, mulling the words over. He truly doesn’t know what he is doing, never has, but he takes one day at a time. Unlike ancient demonic rituals, the likes of which have gone unchanged for millenia, parenthood is a beast he should have considered a bit more carefully. Not that he had been given the time to consider it.

It’s near midnight when he departs the library, setting his glass on the table and wishing Markus a goodnight.

“You owe Harriet an apology,” he says in jest, patting Vergil on the shoulder as he walks out the front doors. “She cares more about the two of you than you might think.”

The walk back home takes longer than he would like. There’s a chill in the air that makes him uneasy, but he writes it off as his inability to drink more than a few ounces of alcohol at a time. 

He passes by the new church as it holds a candlelight vigil, and he takes extra care to keep to the shadows. It is the Order’s new meeting ground despite his adamant protests against such a thing. As a living descendant of Sparda, he figured he would have some sort of say of how the name is utilized among the citizens of Fortuna. To his dismay, the local government called it a Right to Worship. Regardless, they give him no trouble so he, in turn, ignores them.

When he finally walks through the front gate of the manor grounds, Vergil spots a single illuminated window in the otherwise dark building. He lingers only for a moment, before swallowing his pride and heading inside.

He takes the stairs up to the second floor and follows the flood of yellow light to the music room, where Nero sleeps curled up on the chair Vergil usually sits in when he listens to him practice. His violin is on the floor beside him, the bow pinned beneath his neck. He doesn’t look at all comfortable, but he’s slumbering deeply.

Vergil takes a moment to simply watch how the fingers of his demon arm unconsciously twitch, how his long hair covers most of his face. He looks so fragile, so vulnerable and open and Vergil is overcome by the sudden fear that he might not be enough. How long before something destroys this tentative paradise they’ve built by the shore? How long before the same demon who took his family’s lives returns for what little Vergil has left?

He’s been foolish. He’s abandoned the path that would truly grant him the strength to protect all that matters, all that he loves. He walked away from attaining his father’s legacy in order to nurture and care for a child he was careless enough to conceive. A child that, against his better judgement, has become his everything.

Maybe he can still pursue his goal. Maybe, just maybe, Nero would understand why.

Plagued by the ifs and the buts of the past and the future, Vergil carefully scoops Nero into his arms and carries him up to his bedroom.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” Nero says groggily as he’s tucked in. “You scared me.”

“I’ve nowhere else to go, my sweet boy.”

Nero buries himself in his pillows as Vergil brushes the hair away from his face. “I’m sorry for the way I acted. I was out of line.”

“We can discuss it in the morning.”

Nero nods his head. “Okay,” he says, his hand clutching Vergil’s sleeve in a silent request.

Kicking off his boots and shedding his coat, Vergil lays on top of the covers and switches off the lamp on the bedside table. They share the pillow, with Nero bumping their foreheads together with a laugh. “You need a curfew.”

Vergil laughs quietly. “Do I?”

“Yeah. It’s dangerous outside after dark.”

“I was not aware.”

“You should take me with you next time. I can protect you.”

“Would that be with my sword or your own hands?”

Nero harrumphs. “I’ll be eleven in three months.”

“Is that so?”

“I was thinking… maybe we could, um, host a party? It doesn’t have to be in the manor! Markus said you can do that at the park, too.”

Vergil closes his eyes and considers Markus’ words. As much as he wishes he could, he cannot possibly hope to keep Nero isolated from the world. There are far worse places to grow up in, but Fortuna is relatively safe. But the same could have been said for Red Grave City.

“I don’t recall ever giving you permission to grow up.”

It’s Nero’s turn to laugh. “You’re just mad because that means you’re getting old.” He scoots closer, until his head is resting underneath Vergil’s chin. “Does that mean we can?”

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

“Don’t think I won’t.”

* * *

Three days before Nero’s eleventh birthday, Vergil gifts him his own sword.

Naturally, Nero brags about it during his party. The boy Vergil assumes is Credo challenges him to a duel with a tree branch, and the girl that accompanies him cheers them on as they play fight across the park.

He is simultaneously relieved and put off by the lack of adults in the vicinity, sparing him from the pleasantries of small talk and proper social etiquette. That is, until he recalls the reason for their absence. Each and every one of these children are from the orphanage.

Some things, it seems, cannot be taught. Vergil figures Nero has inherited his kindness from his grandmother.

* * *

“Hey, pops! You know what day it is, right?” Nero deftly swings his sword from one hand to the other, flashily spinning it before sheathing in one smooth motion.

“The first and last day you ever address me in such a way, I assume,” Vergil says without looking away from the roses he’s tending to.

“The day I’m officially a teenager!”

“Not until six this evening.”

“Great! Because I, uh, I’m… going to go out tonight. Spend some time with Kyrie! She said she’d make a birthday dinner for everyone at the orphanage.”

Vergil pinches a bud, casting Nero a side-eye. “Kyrie?”

“Yeah. You know. Credo’s sister?”

“Will Credo not be there?”

“Not tonight, no. He’s training to become an Order Knight. He wrote me apologizing for not being able to be there, but that’s part of growing up, yeah? Responsibilities and stuff. I hear knighthood can teach you a lot about that.”

“Foolish youth.” Vergil takes his shears to an errant weed determined to choke his bush, mercilessly cutting it down. He then proceeds to remove all the dead and damaged canes.

“I actually think it’s pretty cool.”

The way Nero says it carries an insinuation Vergil does not like. “There is nothing cool about serving under a false god.”

“I meant everything else that comes with the job. It is a job like any other, you know. The uniform is nice, and they supply you with weapons training, and—”

“Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and I forbid you to even consider it.”

Nero goes quiet behind him, and Vergil can feel him glaring daggers into the back of his head. “You can’t do that. You can’t forbid me from doing anything.”

“I just did.”

“No! I’m old enough to make my own decisions about what I want and don’t want to do with my life. And if I want to join the Order, then I will!”

Calmly setting down his tools, Vergil stands up and brushes off the dirt from his knees. “What do you hope to gain from the Order that I can’t possibly give you?”

“You won’t even tell me about them! About Sparda, or your mother!” The force behind the statement surprises Vergil, as does the glimmer in Nero’s eyes. His fisted hands are shaking by his sides, his sword abandoned in the dirt. “You won’t tell me anything about the—the other world, what you can and can’t do or what you’ve done, what you’re _going_ to do because, yeah, dad, I’ve read the books. I know when you’re up to something.”

“Nero.”

“No. Don’t _Nero_ me.” He reaches up to stroke his own hair, its length nearly reaching his hips. He curls the ends around his fingers as he begins to pace, and it is only then that Vergil recognizes the sigil emblazoned on the coat Nero claimed had been a gift from Credo. “I can help,” Nero says, interrupting Vergil’s thoughts. “Don’t you understand? I can help.”

“There’s nothing to help with, Nero. These people are misguided, worshipping a demon who’s long dead.”

“Not _them_, dad. You! I want to help _you_. Just think about all the knowledge I’ll have access to, all the secrets inside of Fortuna Castle that I can pick at. I’ll be your man on the inside.”

All Vergil can do is laugh.

It takes Nero by surprise, the sudden outburst that so rarely happens.

“Nero, they couldn’t even get the family crest right.” He gestures towards the Order’s emblem on Nero’s coat. “What makes you think they know anything worth our time?”

“I dunno,” Nero concedes, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “I just want to know. Everybody looks at me, even when they can’t see my arm, because they know who I am. They know who you are, and I can’t help but feel like they know more than I do. A bunch of strangers know more about our family than I do. How is that fair? And don’t say you’ll tell me when I’m older, because I’m older now.”

Vergil looks out at the rolling hills that surround their home; at the impenetrable fortress he’s built for them during the past decade. He had come so dangerously close to reliving his childhood trauma during Nero’s birth he swore never to linger in the past again. How could he, when he can barely remember his mother’s face? His brother’s laughter? There is nothing but grief in the past, and he understands that it is only fair Nero hears it.

“I beg you,” Vergil says, demanding his son’s full attention. “Do not join the Order. I’ll tell you everything you wish to know.”

“Everything? Even about the demon tower?”

Vergil’s jaw clenches at the mention. He wants to reprimand Nero for going through his personal things, but it has been thirteen years of no barriers set between them. Nero has always been curious in nature, and Vergil is reluctant to chastise him for being but a reflection of himself.

“Of course,” he reluctantly agrees.

“Alright,” Nero says, turning on his heels and heading back inside the manor. “Why don’t you start with Sparda?”

* * *

At the end of it all, Vergil had found there wasn’t much to tell.

He tells Nero what little he knows about the Dark Knight and the unexplained nature of his disappearance and alleged death. For the eight years Vergil knew him, he had been a good father despite being aloof on the odd occasion Eva wasn’t in the room with the boys. He had felt untouchable, like a benevolent king watching over his treasured people.

But there had been times, Vergil confides, when Sparda placed him upon his shoulders as they went for walks across the valley. He would join on surprise picnics after lesson, and listen to Vergil’s awful attempts at playing music. Sparda may not have been warm or overly doting, but he had been good. He never hesitated nor felt shame telling Vergil he loved him as he tucked him in for the night.

As for Eva – at this, Vergil has to pause and breathe deep – Eva was god.

She was the light of his short life, a worthy reason for worship every morning when she greeted him with a blinding smile and a plate of freshly baked bread. Mother was a mother. Her love was unconditional, even when Vergil accidentally shattered windows in the middle of a tantrum. She blew raspberries on his belly, combed his hair, carried extra clothing for him wherever they went.

Vergil does, however, omit that she would do the same for his twin.

He isn’t entirely certain why he does so, going as far as to not even bring up the fact that his brother was someone who once existed. That, even if Eva had been his god, his younger twin had been his _everything_. There wasn’t an aching moment they weren’t together, for better or worse. Be it quiet moments in Sparda’s study, or rowdy roughhousing in the backyard where bloody noses and loose teeth became the norm.

Maybe because they were children and didn’t know better, maybe it was that demonic instinct that craved violence and blood from each other. Vergil doesn’t know. What he knows is that he enjoyed every moment of it, even when they yelled at each other and stomped off, swearing they’d never speak to each other again. Then they’d fall asleep on the same bed, curled up together with the day’s heat still coming off their little bodies.

“Dad?” Nero prompts once Vergil goes quiet. He pulls on his sleeve, and Vergil smiles at him with almost two decades worth of grief weighing down on it. “You don’t have to continue. I didn’t think—I wasn’t thinking. I should’ve known this was too hard to talk about.”

Vergil shakes his head. He reaches over and cards his fingers through Nero’s hair, the long strands falling over his shoulders moving with them. “Would you be against a haircut?”

Nero shrugs. “My friends keep calling me ‘she’. But you like it long… right?”

“I think you look very handsome,” Vergil says, but doesn’t admit to the fact that the reason why he prefers the long hair is because Nero reminds him of Eva. “However, it’s not my hair.”

Nero takes the ends of his hair and inspects them, rubs it against his palm as if debating his options. “I’d like it short,” he decides before tucking it behind his ear. “If you were eight when that happened, what did you do until mom came along?”

The question blindsides Vergil. He had hoped his non-sequitur would derail the conversation, but trust Nero to be as stubborn as he is.

Vergil is a great many things, but he considers himself a man of honor. Although secretive, he barely finds a need to lie, much less to his son. He considers breaking this personal oath for Nero’s own sake, but he figures that would defeat the purpose of raising him in an environment unapologetic to what they truly are. He doesn’t want Nero to grow fearful or ashamed of his heritage. 

Most pressing of all, Vergil doesn’t want Nero to resent him for the things he’s done and the choices he’s made. “Plenty of things happened, all of which no longer matter.”

“Well, that’s vague,” Nero says, getting up from his seat and plucking a book from the shelf. He opens it, inspects the pages, before placing it back in its spot. Nero continues to do this, his back to Vergil, and it’s as good an indication as any that he’s not letting go of the conversation until he’s heard all he wants to know.

“I was your age when I last escaped the orphanage. They were unable to find me within the week, and so they let off the search.”

Nero turns to him, surprised. “An orphanage?”

“The demons kept coming and I refused to witness the same carnage as that day. So, I left. They had pawned my sword upon my arrival and I stole it back. Luckily, I had grown into Yamato by then. I fought my way out of every predicament I found myself in, then continued to wade waist deep in scum until I taught myself how to survive, how to thrive in a world designed to drown me.” Vergil looks towards the window, at the rippling sea just outside their little haven.

“You can starve a demon, but it will never be enough to kill it,” he continues, refraining from touching his stomach at the memories of scavenging for any sort of food. He had eventually trained his body to withstand it until the loss of muscle mass became detrimental to his ability to fight. “One particular misfortune led me to a den of outcasts willing to do anything for a penny. With nothing but my sword, I became a mercenary for hire.”

“You’re not making this up,” Nero says, but it isn’t phrased like a question. There is awe in his tone, an intrigue only a teenager can feel towards such an otherwise bleak story. “You were a demon hunter.”

“Among other things.” Vergil doesn’t elaborate on that. Nero can wait until he’s older to learn about the blood Vergil can never wash off his hands.

“Is that how you met mom?”

“I had retired by then.”

“Short gig, huh?”

“My priorities shifted,” Vergil says. “I chose self-destruction before the world decided my fate. By then, I thought to myself that if I were to die, at the very least, I should take the demon who killed my family with me.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Nero keeps his eyes trained on the book he’s currently holding, his gangly limbs suddenly unable to find a comfortable spot to stay in. His thumb drags along the spine while the other fingers on his hand drum without a beat. There is discomfort in his face, the kind that slowly gives way to anger.

“That explains it,” Nero says eventually.

Vergil doesn’t look at him, understanding that whatever comes next will not be to his liking.

“You’re going to try again. Or at least pick up where you left off.” Nero slams the book shut. “That’s the reason why suddenly you were okay with me going off into town on my own, why you let me spend time with my friends outside of the manor.”

Trust the boy to connect the pieces so seamlessly. Vergil considers denying it, derailing the conversation altogether, but he knows Nero. He’s caught the end of the thread, and he will do anything to reach the spool.

“You never killed it.”

“No.”

“All those books on the demon tower. Those scrolls.” Nero drops the book on the ground and closes the distance between them; a look akin to panic written on his face. “You’re looking for a way to get to the Underworld, aren’t you? Dad, you can’t—”

“Don’t ever tell me what I can and cannot do,” Vergil says, his voice even and devoid of any emotion.

“Someone has to! What happens if you get stuck there? Or worse?” Nero’s voice cracks, the evidence of his youth brimming at the edges of himself along with unshed tears in his eyes. He stands before Vergil like a barrier, as if his skinny body is enough to keep him contained to the chaise. “What about me?”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“This has everything to do with me!” Nero shouts. “You tell me not to join the Order and expect me to obey but you won’t listen to me when I say not to jump into the Underworld?”

“I’m your _father_,” Vergil says, his words slow in hopes Nero can get them in his head. “Whether you like it or not, that’s how it works.”

“That’s a load of shit.”

The swear surprises Vergil, having never heard Nero mutter anything of the sort. “Watch your tongue, boy.”

“No, I won’t watch my tongue. What are you going to do? Wash my mouth out with soap? Because that’s not going to work. I’ll say it again and again and you can’t stop me, just like I can’t stop you from killing yourself! You couldn’t kill that stupid demon before, what makes you think you can kill it now?”

“_Enough_.” Indignation lights a fire on the soles of Vergil’s feet, pushing him up and forward until Nero takes several steps back with wide eyes. “Listen very carefully, Nero, because I will only say this once. I will not tolerate this kind of brattish behavior in my house; I do not care how old you get. I grant you everything and this is how you repay me?”

“I don’t want ‘everything’,” Nero snarls, pushing into Vergil’s space and baring his teeth with a ferocity he hasn’t seen since his feral days. 

“You’re but an ungrateful child.”

“And you’re an asshole!”

Nero’s right hand lashes out, but Vergil is faster, grabbing his forearm with enough strength to break any average person’s arm. Beneath the coat sleeve his devil arm pulses red hot, luring out the demon that has so peacefully slumbered inside of Vergil. He squeezes until Nero winces, and even then, he doesn’t let up his hold.

Vergil has grown complacent in this life he was so hastily cast into, foolishly buying into the fantasy that entertaining banal humanity would be worth his time. Absurd to think that he could be anyone else other than the vengeful creature born from the flames of his childhood home. Catering to his human side has only brought him constant trepidation, a wrench in a plan he had so meticulously sorted out and was certain to succeed.

Instead, here he stands in his personal library, holding back the claws so ready to cut him down for the selfless efforts he has put forth. He bared his neck to his own son since birth, only to be received by savage teeth. Vergil supposes he ought to be proud in some sense, seeing Nero so readily succumb to the demon that’s yet to fully awaken in him, but it’s boorish to do so in a lapse in control.

Vergil’s own claws emerge with savory delight.

Momentarily losing sight of the situation, Vergil contemplates the rawness of his blood and how it calls to him; how instinct rears its head after so long. Any demon worth their salt would not hesitate to cut down a foe who has raised a fist against them – kin or not. Ripped to shreds for their transgression, for threatening an apex predator in his den.

Pain blooms in Vergil’s chest, and it’s enough to bring him back down to a more rational state of thinking. It’s not a physical pang of any kind, but a genuine war that manifests between the two halves of himself fighting for dominance.

Before him doesn’t stand a powerful demon. Not even a spar could be considered fair, not when Nero has so much to learn about his powers and how to properly use his weapons. Before him only stands Nero. His son, the boy he placed all his plans on hold for, who he’s held through thunderstorms and has bandaged scraped knees for.

Nero who isn’t backing down, eyes glazed over with rage that is not demonic in any way. This is the anger of a teenage boy searching for his place in his limited world. A teenage boy raised by a single father who knows even less about humanity, who had so promptly discarded it during his youth as the most substantial form of weakness.

Forcing down the wreck that are his emotions, Vergil deftly closes and locks door after door until all that is left is the empty, cool hall of his mind. The anger, the hunger for violence, confusion, and grief all vanish from his bones, allowing him to release Nero’s arm and brace himself for whatever Nero unleashes on him.

Nero stumbles back a few paces, red at the face and huffing and puffing as if having run laps around the city. He wants to speak but doesn’t, eyes still narrowed at Vergil in wait.

“Get out,” Vergil says, the evenness of his tone chilling to his own ears. Nero hastily looks at the door, then back at him. “If you consider yourself an adult, then leave.”

Vergil watches the color drain from Nero’s face, but the anger still simmers in his eyes, even as he turns on his heels and walks out of the library without a word. It isn’t until he hears the click of the front door shut that Vergil allows the weight of his regrets to crash over him, nearly sending him to his knees.

He braces himself against the bookshelf, eyes tightly shut and shoulders trembling. It isn’t the first time they’ve fought, but it certainly is the first time he’s come dangerously close to losing control of himself. Disgust spreads, ire at his own shortcomings thrashes viciously in his gut, and Vergil wonders, not for the first time and certainly not the last, why each choice he makes ends in failure.

He wonders if the root of each rotten outcome can be traced to that day at the crossroads, if life would have gone according to plan would he have gotten on that damn boat. Perhaps, in some other timeline where Vergil made the choice to erect Temen-ni-gru rather than return to Fortuna, he would have been victorious. Instead, he is here: a father to a petulant teenager. A father to a child who is, perhaps uncannily, just as volatile, angry, and uncontrollable as he was at that age.

After all, the fruit doesn’t fall too far from the tree.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious man in red appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a whole day late but the semester started up this week and I'm already getting my ass kicked by reading-intensive classes. RIP me. Also, the last bit of this chapter kicked my ass left and right.

The list of things Nero hates is relatively small. Among them are bitter foods, the taste of alcohol, and – the item most recently added this past week – swabbing the deck.

When he signed up for the job, behind his father’s back of course, he had expected more hauling of crates, or a required trip out of port to test his sea legs and his dedication to the cause. The cause being some money to spend that wasn’t Vergil’s, since god knows that’s the only reason why Nero even considered a job to begin with.

Still, it’s on the third day that Nero stands at the bow of the cargo ship, overlooking a horizon tinged orange by a setting sun. The water glimmers in the form of an invitation, calling to him like a siren. There is an entire world just beyond where the sky meets the sea. A promise of bigger and brighter things, an escape from the monotony and the constant arguments that now plague his home life.

He never considered what life as a sailor would be like. Or any life, really. His only aspiration ever had been to join the Order, and that was promptly squashed over a year ago. After that fiasco, they never really spoke of what Nero wanted to be when he grew up. The only potential career option presented to him was that of pseudo-aristocrat, what with their money, name, and lack of actual political authority.

“You’re slackin’, m’lord,” says one of the deckhands, giving Nero a shove as he walks on by. The other men and women on-board laugh before turning back to their tasks.

There’s also the fact that everyone knows who he is. Blending in tends to be difficult with silvery white hair and a hermit of a father who is greatly accepted as the son of their god.

Regardless, Nero sucks it up. He dips the mop in the bucket and continues to mop, covering every inch of splintered wood and counting down the seconds until his shift is over.

* * *

“I think it builds character,” Credo says before crawling into a pot to scrub the insides clean.

In retaliation for the comment, Nero grabs the nearest ladle and bangs it against the copper surface. He snickers at Credo’s disgruntled shout.

“Well, I think it’s very noble of you.” This comes from Kyrie, who’s hanging up her apron for the night. “That’s the second week of wages you’ve put towards food, considering your father already sponsors the orphanage.”

Nero scratches his neck. “I’m sure he could give more and it wouldn’t make a dent in our finances. This time we afforded actual fresh fruit. Besides, I can’t let Credo outshine me with his big fat knight wage.”

“Most of it goes to weapons upkeep, too,” Credo says, straightening up and wiping his forehead with the same rag he’s been cleaning pots and pans with. “But just you wait until I make my way up the chain of command.”

Kyrie smiles at them, turning to put away the things used to make tonight’s dinner. “Maybe I should join the Order, too.”

Nero’s “definitely” is only mildly drowned out by Credo’s “absolutely not”.

“At least I have the support of one of my siblings,” Kyrie says, standing on a plastic crate to better reach the spice shelf. “Thank you for that, Nero.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I just mean,” Credo begins in an attempt to defend his opinion, “that the Order would be unable to handle the two of us at once.”

“No, you don’t think I can join because I’m a girl.”

“That’s not at all what I mean! It’s as if you don’t know me.”

“Oh, I know you well enough. Just because you’re officially an adult doesn’t mean you have to start thinking like they do.”

Nero stands off the side and fishes a green apple from the barrel, watching them bicker with amusement. “I think she’s right.”

“You stay out of this, Nero,” Credo warns, wagging the rag in his direction.

“Ever since you turned the big one-eight you’ve fancied yourself our dad.”

“Rich, coming from the only one of us with one.”

“You can have him,” Nero says. “Fair warning, he might make you quit your job.”

Kyrie continues her ascent, standing on the counter-top now and hanging dangerously over the edge to better see to her task. “Mr. Vergil seems like a very nice man.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’ve only met him twice for a total of a minute.”

“That’s your teenage angst talking,” Credo says.

“See! You’re still a teenager, too. Doofus.”

Kyrie interrupts by jumping down and gracefully landing on her feet. She reties her hair up in a bun, tucking all stray strands behind her ears. “That’s enough, you two. I think we’re just about done here and you don’t have to be home for another hour,” she gestures towards Nero. “I say we go for a walk before the sun sets.”

They agree to head down to the beach that borders Nero’s home. 

Credo buys them all popsicles, the likes of which they quickly eat before the heat melts them. Still, they end up with sticky fingers and blue tongues, laughing and swinging their feet as they sit on the large boulders right on the shoreline.

Night is quickly approaching, with the first stars already dotting the light sky.

They’re mostly quiet, all three tired from the day’s chores and duties.

Credo spends his days training until early afternoon, when he heads over to volunteer at the orphanage. As for Kyrie, she has begun helping the vendors at the market while the head nurse tends to the younger children in the early morning. Nero’s day is comprised mostly of studies, work, and then helping at the orphanage as well. It makes the days go by quickly, falling off the calendar as they grew into their own.

It’s all very boring, Nero thinks, but it could be much worse. At least they have moments like this, sitting in silence with his friends, enjoying the little things before they go back to their own little spheres of reality.

“What would you guys do if you had infinite money?” Nero asks, keeping an eye on his watch.

Both Kyrie and Credo take a moment to think about it.

“I’d find all the kids a home,” Credo says, “fix the system so they can lead better lives, have opportunities to grow and flourish under our current societal norms.” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking very much like the grownup he now is. Nero is only vaguely jealous.

“I’d get us a one-way ticket out of here,” Kyrie says. “Think of all the places we could see, all the food we can eat. All the people we can help along the way.”

Nero smiles, looking down at his shoes. “I like that. Just the three of us.”

“Food connoisseurs,” Credo adds with a hum, clearly taken by the idea.

“Adventurers,” Nero says.

“Why the thought exercise? Usually it’s Credo who comes up with improbable dreams.”

Nero hops down from the boulder and shoves his hands in his pockets. He walks over to the water, stopping only when the waves reach the ends of his shoes. Were he to look back, he could see the manor shining like a beacon, waiting for him to return home.

“I feel like it’s time we finally grew up,” he says. “Credo’s already got us beat and it kind of feels like we’re falling behind.”

Both of his friends frown at him, twin looks of concern etched across their faces.

“You know that’s not true,” Credo says, following suit until he’s standing beside him. “I know I give you both a hard time, but we’re still young.”

“Are we, really? Out of the three of us, you two were the ones that _had_ to grow up.”

“Nonsense,” Kyrie argues, shaking her head. “Yes, our circumstances are certainly different, but we can still do things like this. We can still be us.”

“That kind of thing makes you an adult,” Nero says, shooting her a lopsided grin. “I’m not falling behind.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, the likes of which is filled with the unspoken knowledge that Nero is about to say or do something completely reckless.

“I’ve decided.” He turns to Credo and Kyrie with the utmost certainty, head held high and fists curled at his sides. “Next year, no matter what my old man says, I’m becoming an Order Knight.”

* * *

The follow up to Nero’s fifteenth birthday is an uphill battle.

Despite it being against the rules, Credo trains with him whenever they both have the time to do so. Nero’s natural ability bests him every time, but it is frustrating to be told that he’s doing it wrong.

“You can’t just fight dirty, Nero.”

“It’s not fighting dirty! I won fair and square.”

“You ignored the rules of the duel. Therefore, it’s dirty. Your superiors will never stand for that.”

At home, Nero feels himself drift further apart from his father.

He can’t pinpoint why, but Nero chalks it off to Vergil knowing and accepting he’s being lied to. His father, despite always being in the manor, keeps himself holed up in the study. He will occasionally emerge for a cup of coffee, and Nero sometimes finds an untouched pastry on the counter-top, but that’s about all he can say.

On occasion, Nero finds himself sitting in the big chair in front of the fireplace, the very one Vergil favored when he read books on poetry. His father always took up all of the available space, filling out the seat with his solid and warm presence. With only Nero it is spacious and cold.

Yamato still rests, collecting dust, on the mantelpiece.

Nero wonders if he and Vergil could ever see eye to eye, if his father could ever understand why Nero wants the things he does. He figures those are things that should change once he becomes a full-fledged adult, when he moves out and gets his own place, settles down and starts his own family. Maybe then Vergil will look at him and see him as an equal, a son worth being proud of.

Until then, Nero puts up his violin for good. There are simply not enough hours in a day.

He keeps the black and white photo of his mother tucked safely in his wallet; the one Credo so kindly found in the city archives. The name Lilith is written in faded blue ink on the back, and that’s the most Nero has ever known about his mother.

* * *

The day Vergil officially learns of Nero’s intentions is the day of the practical entry exam.

He had considered sneaking out his bedroom window, but with a white uniform and a garden underneath, it wasn’t worth the risk. Instead, Nero owned the walk down the staircase and across the parlor where Vergil stood, clearly waiting for him.

Nero doesn’t meet his eyes, nearly walks right on past him, but he decides against it. Their relationship may be tenuous but he was raised better than to disrespect his father to his face. He doesn’t say anything, however, standing before Vergil and awaiting judgment.

The ticking of the clock is the only sound that cuts through the otherwise frigid and still air.

Rather than disappointment, all that adorns Vergil’s face is an unreadable expression that Nero hates. He would rather his father be angry, to shout like he once did, to demand Nero to reconsider the outright disobedience. But nothing comes. Vergil simply stands there, ramrod straight.

“Had you informed me of your decision, I would have dressed in my Sunday best,” he says.

“I don’t want you to come,” Nero says, and immediately regrets it. For all of Vergil’s aloofness, he’s still his father, and he knows him well enough to pick up on even the miniscule shifts of body language.

His words had hurt him.

But what’s done is done.

Bowing his head, Nero leaves.

* * *

Life as a knight isn’t all it’s chalked up to be. For one, knights must attend service at least twice a week and lead a life worthy of the Savior.

Nero isn’t a religious man, much less when said religion is focused around his grandfather.

At the very least, he isn’t drowned in the special privileges he had been expecting. He’s treated merely as another brother on a pew, expected to protect the people from the swarms of demons that have curiously begun to appear at random across the city. Nero can live with that. Every day is something new: a part of Fortuna he has never visited, interacting with a colorful individual here and there, easily climbing up the chain of command despite his insubordinate tendencies. His skill and resilience alone are enough to get him by with just a warning smack to the hand.

From where he stands, in his blue and red uniform, it is amazing to see Credo march before him in his pristine white and gold. He’s grown serious over the years, exercising true authority and walking around like he owns the place. His Holiness himself has grown to favor him among the captains, and Nero’s chest could burst with pride.

Being Credo’s underling had been difficult at first, being constantly reprimanded for his level of fraternization while on the clock. Nero quickly learned to do his job, pretend he could give a rat’s ass for Credo, and quietly sit in on sermons. It’s different once the days comes to an end, where they unwind by the beach and Nero talks smack about others in the brotherhood, Credo diligently keeping quiet on the subject of his subordinates and trying to get Nero into a well-deserved headlock.

Kyrie sometimes joins them, but she has become ordained by the church which limits her available time. Both Nero and Credo had been wary by the sudden nomination, but Kyrie had expressed gratitude and excitement at the prospect of becoming a songstress. It paid well, and it got the church on board with plentiful donations for the orphanage.

Grown up they have, and Nero ponders what his next checkpoint in life is going to be.

He had been grueling over the possibilities for weeks until it finally dawned on him, while walking the shops in search of a trinket Vergil had requested him to get. There, in a window display, was a necklace. Normally, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance, but something about the way it reflected the sunlight reminded Nero of a book series his father had read to him as a child.

As pretty as it was, Nero wouldn’t wear it as it’s obviously for women. It took him a moment to realize that he could get it for Kyrie however, given he can definitely afford it on his dime, now.

Nero purchased it without a second thought, and had it wrapped in a neat box with a bow.

His feelings for Kyrie are complicated, to say the least. On one hand, they’ve known each other for so long they might as well be siblings. In fact, she’s referred to him as her brother before. Nero truly cares for her, more than he cares for anyone else, and he wonders if that means what he thinks he means.

He vaguely considered asking Vergil what love feels like, but he immediately laughed out loud as he walked down the street, earning him a few boggled stares. If there is one thing he knows about his father, is that the man has no concept of emotion. The only thing that man loves are his books and his own ego.

Regardless, Nero will give Kyrie the necklace. What follows will follow.

He’ll give it to her that morning, in fact, after the service is over. 

If he can find the box.

After ten minutes of panic, when his watch alerts him he should have left for the inner city fifteen minutes ago, Nero is saved by an unlikely ally.

“Are you looking for this?” Vergil says, holding out the box as he leans against the kitchen counter.

Nero heaves a sigh of relief and takes it, tucking it safely inside his coat. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew how to talk to girls.”

“Don’t make me take it back.”

Vergil smiles amicably. “Before you go, Nero, I have a favor to ask of you.”

Nero makes for the door, nodding his head as he goes. “What is it?”

“I only need a minute of your incredibly busy schedule.”

Nero turns to him then, a hand on the door handle. He lifts his eyebrows in a gesture for Vergil to say what he wants. “Go ahead.” Because Credo’s going to have his head the moment he gets a chance.

Vergil looks to be trapezing around his words, and Nero can’t help the impatient tapping of his fingers against the door.

“Be careful,” he eventually says, and leaves it at that.

“Always am,” Nero answers, putting his headphones on and rolling his eyes once he’s sure his father can’t see.

He breaks out into a run the moment he clears the manor grounds, hoping with all his might that, at the very least, he doesn’t miss Kyrie’s performance at the church. It’s all his fault for misplacing the one important thing, but it’s a lot easier to blame it on his father and his, frankly odd, behavior that morning.

It isn’t long before he comes across a staggering group of demons along an empty avenue.

“I don’t have _time_ for this,” Nero growls, drawing the sword he’s allowed to bring with him off hours. It’s a beauty specifically designed to accommodate his skill level, a token of gratitude for his service given his pedigree, and it gets the job done.

He’s quick to dispose of the enemies, especially when he doesn’t have to rely on the Order’s strict rules of combat. He can hack and slash as he pleases, use disintegrating bodies as stepping stones for particularly pesky mongrels that aim to get a jump on him. It gets his blood pumping nice and early once the adrenaline takes over.

This is much better than hauling crates onto a steamer.

Wiping his sword clean once the horde’s been taken care of, Nero pauses. He gives no thought to the passage of time, to where he needs to be or else get reprimanded again. 

Nero stops because he feels a physical change in the air; a charge in the particles that forces his hairs on end. It feels much like a wave of anxiety crawling up his legs to rest on his shoulders, making them its permanent home. Even the sea breeze smells different, more pungent, more sulfuric.

Something is coming and Nero’s chest tightens at the thought.

His first instinct is to run home, knock down the door to his father’s study and demand he stop whatever it is he’s planning. He isn’t entirely sure why he thinks this is father’s doing, but it sure feels like it. Like a pulse in his blood, that pang of familiarity says it can be no one else but him, it must be.

Nero has learned, however, that he can no longer abide by instinct alone. The brotherhood has beat into him that logic and rationality will get matters tended to, strength in numbers at the hands of skilled knights.

Trampling down the call towards the manor, Nero hurries to the church.

He arrives just in time to listen to the last of Kyrie’s song, sneaking in mostly unnoticed and taking his usual spot on the pew, but his attention is elsewhere. His eyes wander across the crowded area, taking in the bowed heads and hands clasped in prayer. The murmur of worshipers is loud, distracting, but Nero has enough mind to vaguely gesture at Kyrie that he’s impressed by her performance once it comes to an end.

She joins him on the pew and is surprised by the box sitting next to him. Taking it in hand, she sits down and opens it without a second thought, covering her mouth when she sees what’s inside. Kyrie bumps his shoulder with hers, and the awkward smile they share is worth it.

Just for a moment, Nero forgets about the eerie sense that has befallen Fortuna. He ignores His Holiness’ rambling from the altar as he stands before the looming effigy of Sparda. All he has eyes for is the soft slope of Kyrie’s face, at how pretty she is, and he decides then and there that the necklace was definitely the best damn idea he’s ever had.

His reverie is abruptly interrupted by the ear-splitting noise of shattering glass.

The collective gasp has him turning back to the altar, where all he can see is a flurry of red quickly followed by a gunshot.

Nero’s on his feet before he can register what is happening, putting himself between the altar and Kyrie. “Go! Get out!” His words snap everybody out of their stunned stupor, sending the church into chaos. 

The shouting and screaming drowns out to a single high-pitched sound that digs itself into Nero’s brain. His ears ring maddeningly loud as he jumps over the pews to get to the assailant, but who he sees freezes him dead in his tracks.

The face the assassin wears is the same one Nero has been seeing for seventeen years.

It’s off, however. There’s something about it that is inherently different, and the revelation is enough to kick him into action once more.

He’s too slow. Before Nero can get to him, the assassin has already put a bullet into the heads of every church official present, as well as higher ranking knights of the Order. Rage explodes behind his eyes as he draws his sword, ready to cut down any monster who so readily places those closest to him in danger.

Nero launches himself into the air, his sword at the ready, but he’s easily parried with enough force to knock him back several feet. It’s enough to catch the assassin’s attention, the man staring at Nero with something akin to surprise on his blood-splattered face.

Revving the Red Queen, he buys them time until the churchgoers have vacated the area.

“You sure got a lot of balls to come in here and mess everything up. Didn’t your parents teach you even a modicum of respect?” Nero says, holding his sword steady were the enemy to strike.

The man says nothing. He stalks back and forth, his own massive sword resting over his shoulder as he seizes up Nero like a predator considering its odds. He eventually rests the sword’s end on the stone floor and pretends to rev its hilt, shrugging when nothing happens.

Nero grits his teeth and lunges at him, their swords clashing and locking in a test of brute force. Aware of his strengths, Nero shoves and side-steps, swinging the Red Queen towards the assassin’s head. The assassin blocks him with nonchalant ease, brushing Nero’s sword away with the same air he brushes off marble dust from his red coat.

The man is unbothered, bored almost, as he saunters across the altar and taunts Nero to come at him again.

Nero rises to the bait, switching from sword to firearm, unleashing a volley of shots that are reflected right back, bullets split in half with deadly precision. The assassin switches his own weapon, as if to demonstrate that Nero isn’t the only that came prepared. From seemingly out of nowhere, the man summons two guns and opens fire.

Nero kicks up the nearest pew and uses it as a shield, the wood splintering upon impact.

The man whistles, then proceeds to do the same. Rather than shield himself, however, he flings the pew towards Nero. It smashes against the stone wall, and Nero belated realizes he hadn’t intended to hurt him. At least, not with the pew.

Certain now, of the man’s demonic nature, Nero doubles down on his efforts.

Their fight becomes a dance of skill and perseverance, switching between swords, guns, and a particularly well aimed kick that sends the assailant stumbling backward.

It is only after Nero has managed to pin him with his own sword to the statue of the Savior, that he breaks the one unbreakable rule set forth by his father. Nero removes the bandages from his arm, letting its demonic power course through him to end it once and for all.

The assassin, pushing himself free from the effigy with little effort, sword still embedded in his chest, fixes Nero with yet another look of thinly veiled wonder. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“So you do talk,” Nero snaps, holding the Red Queen in one hand and flexing his claws in warning. “Thought cat had gotten your tongue.”

“Meow.”

The chorus of voices right outside alerts Nero of backup, Credo’s words booming orders as they block off any and all exits to the church.

His momentary relief is short lived when he turns to the assassin, only to see empty space before him.

“You fought a good fight, kid. But that’s my cue to hit the road,” the man says from high above, sitting casually over the shattered edges of the church’s glass dome. “Got a feeling I’m gonna see you again real soon.”

“Hey!” Nero rushes forward but there is no way of getting up there, even with every ounce of demonic power in him. “Get back here!” But he’s already gone in a streak in blood red. “Dammit.”

Behind him, the church doors are finally blown open. Debris from the skirmish kicks up, swirling in the beams of light filtering through the shattered skylight. The total devastation slows every remaining member of the Order, giving Nero enough time to hide his arm.

“Where is he?” Credo demands, extending an arm to prevent Kyrie from getting any closer to the chaos, but she pushes him aside and runs to Nero’s side.

“He’s gone.”

“You let him escape?”

The accusatory tone leaves a sour taste on Nero’s tongue as he settles Credo with a sharp glare. “Had I the proper backup, we could have probably reigned him in.” Nero doesn’t demand to know why they all left in the first place, leaving him to take charge of the dirty work, but the nagging thought is still there.

It’s almost as if they wanted the assassin to escape. Or, worse yet, for Nero to fail.

He wants to believe Credo would never stoop so low as to sabotage him, but Nero is experiencing all kinds of out-of-sorts feelings. The hold on his arm quietens the anger simmering just beneath, Kyrie staring up at him with worried eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

The necklace gleams against the pale fabric of her dress. He nods. “Are you?”

Kyrie fleetingly looks towards the direction of His Holiness’ body before supressing a shiver. “I will be once that man is caught and brought to justice.”

“You did well,” Credo eventually concedes, patting Nero’s shoulder as he does his rounds and counts the dead. “We should have been there.”

“Yeah,” Nero says absently, his thoughts elsewhere. “I’ll scout the city and report back by morning. He couldn’t have gotten far.” He looks to Kyrie, softly squeezing her hand. “Promise me you’ll stay close to your brother until we figure this out.”

She mock punches him in the arm. “Only if you don’t do anything too reckless.”

“No promises,” he says while gathering his bearings and heading out the doors.

He books it back to the manor.

There are a million questions thrashing violently inside of his skull, as well as a million and one speculations as to what in the living hell just happened. Vergil’s cautioning not mere hours ago still hangs over him, the tell-tale sign that his father knew something was afoot.

Nero regrets not pressing him for information. He regrets not asking what Vergil has been up to, holed up as he’s been for months in his study with nothing but his scrolls for company. Nefarious things are astir, and whether Nero likes it or not, all roads lead back to home.

The assailant had his father’s face.

The implications are staggering. He doesn’t know where to begin. He doesn’t want to consider what sort of twisted, covert matters he will come across once he’s crossed the threshold.

Above head, clouds are gathering. A storm is quickly brewing, and Nero quickens his step.

He comes across no demons.

He bolts over the garden hedge, leaping over the iron bench and crushing the smaller bushes under his heavy boots. Nero slams his shoulder into the front door, bursting it open to reveal an alarmed Vergil stopping mid-step on the staircase, book in hand.

He opens his mouth to speak and pauses, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

Catching his breath, Nero slams the door shut behind him and points an accusing finger at him. “You want to tell me just what the fuck you did to get half the goddamn Order killed during service?”

Vergil simply stands there. If the profanity bothered him, he doesn’t let on. “Explain yourself.”

Nero huffs, throwing his hands in the air out of frustration. “Some amped up demon showed up, killed Sanctus in front of the entire congregation, wiped out a solid chunk of high-ranking church officials, and—and—are you even listening to me?”

There’s a glacial look to Vergil as he stands there, sights set on the front door.

That same static Nero had felt that morning returns tenfold, manifesting around him like a blanket of electricity luring him to water. It nearly chokes him, settling heavy in his gut. He turns to the door as well, but all Nero sees is Vergil, back stiff and shoulders rigid, sword in hand.

Nero is bewildered considering he was half a room away and unarmed not a second ago.

“Foolish boy,” Vergil says, low enough to almost be a snarl were he the type of man to do so.

It occurs to Nero that maybe coming right home wasn’t his brightest idea. That man – that monster – has followed him right to the footsteps of his childhood home. Now his father stands, poised and ruthless, ready to defend his turf.

Before Nero can even come up with the right words, Vergil opens the door and steps outside.

It comes as no surprise, seeing the man in red standing at the entrance to the front garden.

“You!” Nero shouts, nearly breaking into a run were it not for Vergil’s hand in front of him, ending any and all ideas to engage. “What are you—?”

Vergil has never been a very expressive person, choosing instead to demonstrate emotion through actions and words that oftentimes sound hollow to the untrained ear. His stoic nature is a matter of pride, his ability to remain impassive in the most trying of situations. This is why Nero stands back without prompt, the unreadable façade taking a twist that has sick bubbling up his throat.

He sees it before he hears it, the unsheathing of the Yamato.

Vergil assumes a stance Nero has never seen before: feet planted firm and apart, knees bent, the hilt of the curved blade nearly pressed to his chest. This isn’t the same man who cooed at him, who kissed his forehead and laid him down to sleep. This isn’t the Vergil who fixes his fingers over the strings of a violin or makes awful jokes at the expense of Nero’s embarrassment. No. The man before him is a warrior, wound tight and deadly, and Nero has never felt such a sense of awe or fear towards his own father.

“Get back inside,” Vergil says, low and leaving no room for argument. “Whatever happens, do not come out. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Nero says without an ounce of sarcasm. Normally he would argue, demand he join while taking offense at not being seen as someone worth fighting alongside of. Self-perseverance is powerful, however, and Nero does as he’s told.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing says "family reunion" quite like a sword through the chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking forward to writing this chapter ever since I first started this fic. Then when I got to it, it turned out eating the physical territory of Russia would have been easier. Me and fight scenes, man, we don't really mix.

The image before him is a nightmare clawed from the darkest depths of his subconscious.

He’s never dreamed of it. Never given the thought much reign as life continued, cornering him in unexpected places and forcing him to reconsider his plans and actions. The memory of the fire will sometimes surface when he’s at his most vulnerable, usually after an argument with Nero or on the eve of his planned exacting of his revenge – the likes of which he keeps stalling, but it’s just that he recalls. The fire. How it had burned, how it had consumed all that Vergil ever loved. How it once again very nearly destroyed the only thing precious to him.

Vergil never thinks about the faces lost to the flames. His mother’s torched corpse had been enough to traumatize the mind of a child. In part, that was the reason why he never searched too hard for his brother, out of fear that he will be met with the same gruesome scene. Vergil had scoured the outskirts of the family home, had searched the nearby village, desperately asking strangers if they had seen another boy who looks just like him. Never did he search the charred remains of the mansion.

All Vergil knew, with utmost certainty, was that Dante was gone.

And now this monster carries his face.

The man in red doesn’t move past the gate. He stands there, observing and quiet.

Something traitorous thrashes in Vergil’s chest like a ravenous beast smelling fresh meat. He can feel the hot pulsing in his veins, the call to kin that cannot be mimicked by any demon other than blood. It knots in Vergil’s throat, the mixed perceptions of instinct and logic.

Regardless, another demon has invaded his turf and they must pay for their transgression.

His thumb caresses the sturdy hilt of the Yamato, a soothing gesture that reminds him of the vigor of his youth. No one and nothing can best him, not while he holds the blade forged solely for him.

The man scoffs and marches right into the garden.

Vergil immediately recognizes the massive sword he summons from the ether, with its skull motif so befitting its wielder. The antithesis to the Yamato, Rebellion was designed for brute force and bluntness that was so inherently Dante, even as a child.

With a single-handed hold, the man points his sword at Vergil. “Let’s dance.”

The Rebellion comes towards Vergil in a vicious downward strike driven by momentum and otherworldly strength, but the Yamato holds fast, pushing back before swinging in retaliation. It slices through the air with a whistle then a clash as both swords lock again.

The man is quick, driving his sword forward with the intent to pierce, but Vergil is much quicker. He sidesteps then goes on the offensive, driving the man back only for him to whip out a pistol. Vergil successfully knocks it out of his hand with a precise jab of his hilt then swings for the neck, but the man blocks Yamato with nothing but his forearm. Vergil yanks it back, slicing the red coat sleeve and drawing first blood.

“Now you’ve done it. That’s my favorite coat you just ruined.”

Rebellion swoops upward and Vergil dodges the hit aimed at his hip. He spins on his heel for momentum but the man is toe-to-toe with him, hilt locking on hilt, as he pushes into Vergil’s space. This close, Vergil can look into icy blue eyes that border on gray.

“Not to bitch, but I feel at a disadvantage here,” the man says, visibly straining to keep equal force against his sword. “You get to fight in a fancy dad sweater on your home turf.”

Vergil knocks him back with a kick to his chest. “What are you?” he says, stalking closer with no hesitation in his step. “Why have you come?”

“I’m a gentleman, and I usually don’t come until after my lover’s satisfied.”

“Then you shall die,” Vergil announces, done playing this game. Stepping away from the man, Yamato slashes the air in a graceful arch before sliding back into its sheath. Vergil watches as dozens of spectral swords appear around the man, all of them coming down at once and piercing him countless times.

The man staggers back, and that’s when Vergil sees it.

He only gets the briefest of glimpses before the man falls backwards onto the ground: a red amulet that catches the late morning sunlight, gleaming brighter than any precious gem Vergil has ever laid witness to.

He waits until he’s certain the man won’t get up again before carefully making his way over to him, staring down at his prone form with great trepidation. Vergil glances at the Rebellion lying by his side, its spiked skull facing emptily towards the sky.

Looming over him, Vergil refuses to accept the impossible reality that this man well and truly is his brother. Any demon can mimic another’s appearance. Some can even collect thoughts and spew memories capable of deceiving any seasoned warrior. The resonance of blood, however, is something that cannot be faked. Not with blood as powerful as that of Sparda.

This man, with his garish attire and crude attitude, can be none other than his brother.

Vergil squats beside his body to better take him in. His face is fuller than his own, stubbled and hardened by the life he’s presumably been leading. There’s a small scar by his jaw and Vergil is boggled by it, considering scars never linger for too long. It must have been some sort of enchanted weapon.

It has been twenty-seven years since they last saw each other. They were but children, nowhere near coming into their own features. Still, the vaguest of pangs echoes in Vergil’s gut that, despite being his twin, they’re no longer identical. He half expected to see a mirror image of himself, but there are things, most of them minuscule, that Vergil can pick up on.

It all falls to the back of his mind as he focuses on the sizeable gem hanging out of the top of his unzipped shirt. The intricate silver plating it rests upon steals Vergil’s breath, bringing back so many memories he thought long forgotten.

Vergil lost his long ago, and it’s a mistake he will never forgive himself for. The twin amulets were the only surviving thing Eva had given them when they were boys. Crafted by their father, infused with a power Vergil still doesn’t know – but a power he needs, nonetheless. Endless searching, countless scrolls and tomes read only to learn that the Hell Gate cannot be opened until he has the right keys. And one of them has made its way to his front door.

Carefully reaching down, Vergil presses his fingertips to the amulet. At last, he is so very close to fulfilling what he set out to do nearly seventeen years ago.

“Didn’t Mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare?”

Vergil directs his attention to the man’s face. The cockiness from earlier has vanished, leaving in its wake an impassive look.

“As well as she taught you to not be rude.”

“Guess some lessons just don’t stick.”

Neither moves.

Vergil is at a loss with the turmoil within, a wretched mixture of emotions each louder than the next. He can keep them in check well enough, forcing their manifestations back and locking them behind steel doors – but that doesn’t prevent them from existing. Vergil is aware of each and every feeling slithering around his core: ire, hatred, grief, hope, and something far greater, so terrifying it is unnamable.

He had never wasted time in idle fantasies of what he would do were he ever to reconnect with his dead family, but this isn’t what he expected. The last time he and Dante fought each other had been with wooden swords. There had been laughter and the promise of supper within the hour. Now, Vergil is overcome by the sublime need to bash his brother’s face in with nothing but his fist.

_How dare he._

How dare he be alive and curse Vergil to a life of loneliness and sorrow. How dare he arrive at his doorstep with the swagger of someone who thinks himself on top of the world.

Vergil digs his nails into the worn fabric of Dante’s shirt, encasing the amulet within his fingers. “I’m afraid I need this, _brother_.”

Dante returns the favor by grabbing his wrist, his own nails slicing the soft skin and drawing blood. “You’re gonna have to take it from my cold, dead body.”

“That can surely be arranged.”

The cold that suddenly pushes through Vergil’s abdomen is disorienting. It becomes blinding hot within an instant, and then he’s falling back onto the grassy terrain of his garden. The sword impaled thought him keeps his body bent at an awkward angle, half fallen and half in the crouched position he had been not a second ago.

The cough that bubbles out of him is accompanied by blood that pours from his mouth, just as warm as the blood staining from the wound.

Vergil grabs the Rebellion by the blade, but the cocking of a gun prevents him from doing anything else. A barrel presses snug against his temple as Dante towers over him. “Give me one reason not to put you down.”

“It would take more than this to kill me,” Vergil says around a snarl.

“Oh, trust me, I know. But it’ll still hurt like a motherfucker.”

Vergil grips the sword harder, but bloody hands simply slip over polished steel. He struggles to free himself when the sound of a gunshot makes him falter, but no new blooms of pain are immediately apparent.

Dante, however, looks down on himself. He tugs at his collar, revealing a bullet wound.

“Get away from him, you bastard!” Nero calls out from somewhere behind him.

The shiver that electrifies Vergil is nauseating.

Dante looks from Vergil to Nero, then back to Vergil with a cocked eyebrow. “Kid’s got some balls.”

“Leave him alone.”

“Persuade me,” Dante says, but before Vergil can muster a reply, he pulls the trigger.

* * *

In the abyss, a beast stirs from its slumber.

* * *

When Vergil comes to, he’s in a dark but familiar room.

He’s laying on a bed, head on a pillow, and a foreign weight is unevenly distributed along the right side of his body. He doesn’t move for a variety of reasons, mainly because everything aches more than it has in a very long time, and because the weight is none other than Nero, curled up half on top of him and sound asleep.

They haven’t shared a bed since Nero was ten and he had declared he was too grown up for something so childish, and so Vergil had left it at that. The disappointment was eclipsed by a quiet sense of pride as Nero embraced his independence and shunned potential displays of weakness. A weakness Vergil would have allowed a little while longer. Listening to Nero’s even breathing has always soothed him, his slumbering presence filling his chest with an adoration he’s seldom felt for anything else throughout his life.

To have him here, now, is surprising.

Irritation surges within, however. That he was bested in battle, humiliated in front of his son, deemed weak and useless, disabled by a firearm. It is unforgivable and only reinforces his resolve to get this situation quickly dealt with so that he may return to his previous scheming. If a mere half human, half demon hybrid can defeat him, then he certainly must aspire to surpass Sparda as he was in life.

Clearly this was a contest of strength and will, and not at all a lapse of errant emotions brought forth by the presence of the brother he thought long dead.

Nero shifts in his sleep, burrowing closer to Vergil in the cool night air. The bedroom windows are open and the moon hanging overhead is full, illuminating the rolling hills that give way to the slumbering city just a few miles to the west. All is peaceful, save for the heaviness now resting deep in Vergil’s blood.

He can feel him. Like a steady pulse fluttering alongside his own. It is wretched and appalling, that Nero’s own call pales in comparison to this stranger his biology calls out to as kin.

Vergil cards his fingers through Nero’s soft hair, stirring him awake.

“Hm? Oh—Dad!” Nero scrambles up into a sitting position, his hands frenziedly scrambling over Vergil’s chest in search of any remaining trace of his wound. His fingers eventually migrate to his forehead, poking and prodding and finding nothing. “You’re okay.”

“Of course I am,” Vergil assures him, letting his arm fall back to the bed. “It will take more than bullet to kill me.”

“You got run through with a sword,” Nero says, his words slow and measured in case Vergil had forgotten. “He shot you in the—in the _head_.” The last word breaks into a hiccup, Nero’s shoulders trembling in the dim light of the room, but not a single tear makes an appearance. He is trying his hardest to remain strong, and Vergil praises him in the form of a gentle touch to his elbow. “I didn’t think you were that good at fighting.”

Vergil laughs despite himself. “I’m perfectly capable of defending us both.”

“Which is how Dante…” Nero lets the sentence die out, averting his eyes. “He’s persistent.”

The mirth vanishes without a trace as Vergil sits up. “Where is he?”

“He refuses to leave.”

“He’s _in_ the house?”

“You would’ve killed me if I tried to stop him by force.”

“Bloody hell.” Vergil darts from the bed and reaches for his coat by the bedroom door, slipping it on before making for the spiral staircase. “Bloody _fucking_ hell.”

Nero gawks at the curse before learning how to walk again, following his father downstairs. “I did the next best thing, which was watching over you—”

“By falling asleep? Quite gallant of you, Nero. Did they teach you this in the Order?”

Unarmed and frankly exhausted, Vergil crosses the foyer with the single-mindedness of a man possessed. He bursts through the parlor doors where the stench of alcohol and sweat (and flowers, strangely enough) are potent enough to drown a man.

Dante sits casually on the bergère, one leg resting over the other as he leafs through the book that had been resting on the side table. The fire is going, crackling in the otherwise quiet area.

Vergil seethes at the gall of him. “Get out,” he says, as evenly as physically possible.

Dante looks up at him. “Whatever happened to that Fortunian hospitality I’ve been hearing about?”

Nero enters the room then, eyes aflame with anger. “Hospitality? You killed His Holiness and then proceeded to try and kill my father! You can take your hospitality and shove it up your—”

“Nero,” Vergil warns.

“Well, ain’t this precious?” Dante says, closing the book and putting it back where he found it. “I had my suspicions. Not gonna lie, for a hot second I thought you might have been mine after that little stint at the church, but. No, I can totally see the resemblance.” He pauses, feigning thoughtfulness, “Oh, wait.”

Vergil keeps his distance but roams the room, like a predator focused on its prey. “I won’t ask again,” he says.

Dante considers him with an even look that is at odds with his humorous tone. “Alright.” Putting his hands up in mock surrender, Dante stands up from the seat. “I can take a hint.”

Together they escort him out of the manor, with Nero’s gun pressed flush against his skull. All for show really, because after the events of this afternoon Vergil is certain Dante is more than capable of putting them both down with very little effort. The man is dangerous in more ways than Vergil can count.

At the door, Dante lazily drags his boots down the steps. “It’s been nice chatting with ya’,” he says, turning around to face the manor and walking backwards towards the property gates. He salutes them. “I’ll be in town for a hot minute. Got some business to tend to. If you ever wanna catch up, find me where the hot girls are.”

Vergil slams the door shut before he even sees him leave. He locks every lock on it while thinking which wards would work best against demonic hybrids, wondering if he already has any on hand in the library. Something tells him he will have to further reinforce all previous wards to begin with.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Nero eventually says after a long period of tense silence, standing behind Vergil like a ghost.

“There is nothing to tell.”

“You told me it was just you and your parents.”

“It would’ve made no difference.”

Nero scoffs. “Whatever happened to complete transparency, huh? If you want this to work between us then I suggest you start being a little more honest.”

“Now is not the time, Nero.”

“Now’s as good a time as ever!”

Vergil whips around to face him, fists clenched by his sides. “No, it is not!” He stalks closer to Nero, dropping his voice to a murmur. “My brother is back from the dead after twenty-seven years. I need a moment to reconcile this fact.”

Nero is the first to look away, eyebrows pinched. 

“I’ll make some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Vergil doesn’t move from the spot as Nero wanders into the kitchen, rummaging for the electric tea kettle they have in case either is feeling too lazy to properly prepare a drink. He can hear him open the cupboard and grab the porcelain mugs, chinking as they’re set down on the marble counter with too much force. The press of a button is soon followed by yet another cabinet door opening, this time accompanied by the clink of the glass jar they keep their sugar in.

Vergil stands and he listens to the sounds of his son moving about a room over. He listens and breathes as he comes to terms with the violent tilt his world has taken, knocking him wholly off his axis. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He can’t begin to comprehend how this will change things.

“Water’s ready,” Nero calls, kickstarting Vergil back into action.

They sit at the island in the kitchen until the sun begins to break over the horizon, streaking the dark sky with hues of orange and pink. Not many words have been spoken since Dante’s exit, but they’ve lost count of the amount of tea they’ve consumed since.

“What am I supposed to tell my superiors? Yeah, the guy who killed His Holiness is actually my uncle and I just let him go because I didn’t know what else to do?” Nero’s head is in his hands. “He also tried to kill the son of Sparda but technically he’s also a son of Sparda so does it really matter if he succeeded or not?”

“Best not to mention tonight’s events,” Vergil says, staring blankly at his fingers against the black marble of the countertop. “Go about your day. Leave the rest to me.”

Nero looks up at him, silently debating but ultimately deciding to let it go. Vergil appreciates it.

“Try not to get yourself killed.” Nero slides off the stool and yawns, stretching out his arms and back. “I’m going to try and catch a few more hours of sleep before I have to report to Credo. Maybe that will help clear my mind.”

Vergil hums absently. “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary lately?”

“Excluding your twin, just more demons than usual but nothing too obvious. Why?”

He shakes his head. “Something’s changed.”

Nero continues to stare at him, his hair half obscuring his eyes. “I know.”

Vergil nods his head. Dante arriving at his doorstep when he has cannot be a coincidence, coupled with the sudden spike in demonic activity and the assassination of the Order’s leader. A distinct energy crackles in the air, and it puts Vergil on edge. This is not his doing.

“I’ll be careful,” Nero says softly. “If you promise to watch your back, too.”

“I will,” Vergil says, and shoos Nero to bed.

The clock has barely struck five in the morning as Vergil continues to sit in stupefied silence.

Dante survived.

He’s alive and well, and within Vergil’s realm of existence.

The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying, but mostly he feels more of the same anger ardently simmering just below his skin.

He refuses to let his emotions cloud his judgment any further, however. Dante has half of the amulet. If he can manipulate the situation in his favor, Vergil may be able to expedite the process. It is not at all how he expected his plan to develop, but he will accept any and all happy blunders that adamantly insist on falling into his lap.

Taking the mugs and placing them in the sink, Vergil sheds his coat.

He might seek Dante out after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs to stop bullying Nero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter updates are likely to lag from here on out since school is here to suck the energy out of me and I'm all out of pre-written chapters for this one. Shout out and lots of love to all the lovely people who continue to show their love for this piece! YOU'RE ALL AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU.

The news of the events remains fresh on everybody’s tongues as the days continue to pass, spreading so quickly and wildly it’s surprising the assassin is yet to be caught and brought to justice.

The people of Fortuna have taken to congregating in the streets, offering prayers of mourning to their fallen leader. Once the sun sets, they barricade the doors to their homes and draw the curtains shut as demons infest the streets. The snarling noises usually subside by dawn, when the faithful awaken to cobblestone streets drenched in gore. 

The Order of the Sword has hidden itself under a cloak of absolute silence, suspending all public assemblies and religious services until further notice. Its knights can be seen combing alleyways, searching the seedier parts of the city, and, eventually, knocking on doors. No stone is left unturned in their search for the man in red.

Their suspicions, however, zero in on a single manor in the outskirts of town. The impenetrable home of a pseudo-nobleman, a known son of the Savior, and his wayward son.

“You can’t tell me our suspicions are unfunded,” Credo explains. He sounds apologetic despite his stiff stance as he walks around the small room, Nero sitting behind a flimsy table as he’s interrogated.

“How many white-haired men can there possibly be out there, yeah?”

“I need you to cooperate.”

“I am cooperating. I’m telling you everything I know. Never seen the guy, he dropped in, killed Sanctus, and I beat him, and he hauled ass right out through the ceiling.”

“And then you disappeared for the rest of the day. Deserting your post.”

“I…” Nero looks away, ashamed but agreeing. “I needed to know my father was okay.”

“Your father who, correct me if I’m wrong—”

“Looks exactly like our guy, I know. That’s why I went home. I needed to know. My old man may be a recluse but he’s no murderer.”

The light that shines in from behind Credo glows on his frame like a halo, a wrathful angel ready to strike down the lying demon that sits before him. Although, Nero isn’t entirely lying. He sincerely knows nothing of Dante other than he’s his father’s brother, and that’s a truth he would like to omit for the time being. At least until he has a more solid heading on what to do with this fiasco.

“There is still the matter of you abandoning your post,” Credo says, pinching the bridge of his nose in a way that alerts Nero to lowered defenses. They may be alone, but Nero knows when business means business, and Credo draws a hard line between his rank and his personal relationships. “My superiors won’t let you off easy.”

“What’s the worst they can do? Kick me out of the Order? They couldn’t even if they wanted, and they don’t want to.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

“I’m the Savior’s grandkid,” Nero reminds him.

“That doesn’t make you indispensable.”

The implication Credo is making sits uncomfortably in his gut. “But I’m the easier target.”

Credo pauses to give a warning look, and Nero takes it as his cue to stop talking. The walls have ears, after all. “You will be on probation until further notice. You may resume all duties only under the direct supervision of a designated chaperone.”

“Fine, treat me like a rookie.”

“It was a rookie mistake,” Credo says, and the disappointment in his tone makes Nero sink into the chair he sits in. “I will not be assuming the role.”

“Conflict of interest. Right.”

“I hope you are able to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Order, Nero.”

“Whatever.”

Credo nods his head and the doors open up, a handful of robed men pouring into the room to escort Nero out. He goes without a fuss, looking over his shoulder ever so often to see Credo stiffly exchanging words with some official Nero can’t put a name or rank to.

* * *

“You scared me there for a moment,” Nero says as he lounges against one of the many chimneys on the cathedral’s rooftop. “I thought you were going to lock me in the brig and throw away the key.”

“I would apologize but I was merely doing my job.” Credo jumps onto the terracotta slabs from the flimsy maintenance ladder that’s been carelessly left up overnight. “I will admit that I’m impressed by your ability to bluff through an interrogation.”

“I wasn’t bluffing.”

“You really don’t know the man?”

Nero scoffs, looking up at Credo like he’s personally offended him. Which he has. “We’ve spent how much time together over the past couple of years? You’ve even met my father, and that’s as difficult as meetings go. Why would I lie to you?”

Credo sits across from him, dangling his legs over the edge of the roof.

The sun is setting over the horizon, bathing the ancient city in warm orange light. The early evening chill has begun to set in. The streets are quiet, both subdued in their mourning and driven by fear of what lurks in the darkness.

Lies by omission, Nero concedes, but he doesn’t feel too bad about it considering Credo is keeping his own secrets close to his chest. He misses their childhood days when all was exposed for them to know, when they would exchange embarrassing truths and have a good laugh about it over popsicles. Now Credo carries with him state secrets capable of destroying their already tumultuous lives. Nero doesn’t resent him for it. It’s his job, after all. But the thin line they walk between business and their personal lives is a dangerous one.

“You would if it meant protecting your family,” Credo eventually answers.

“I have no need to lie for my father. Or for you, or Kyrie.”

“Your family.”

“Yeah. Figured you’d know this by now.”

“You are like a brother to me, Nero,” Credo says, and there’s something in his voice that puts Nero on edge. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you.”

The lack of eye contact is incriminating.

Since joining the Order of the Sword, Nero knew to always be suspicious of everything and everyone. Although he may not flaunt his lineage, he is aware of his worth in the eyes of those religiously devoted to their god. Those who worship always do so in hopes of something in return, Vergil once said, and Nero took it to heart. However low his rank may be, there are always those who do not meet his eyes or bow their heads in a show of respect.

If they do not worship out of selfishness, then they do so out of fear.

Albeit unspoken and oftentimes overlooked in the height of service, while sermons are delivered on the importance of shielding oneself from the influence of demons, it is common knowledge that Nero – and by extension Vergil – is not entirely human. Any fool can put the pieces together and to think otherwise is absurd.

Nero may be the direct descendant of the Savior, but that also makes him part devil. Nothing but one of the creatures the knights of the Order so diligently annihilate in the interest of the safety of all citizens of Fortuna.

It’s a very peculiar position to be in, one he has gotten used to over the years, but Credo’s sudden withdrawal raises plenty of worrisome uncertainty.

“You’d tell me if something was going on, right?” Nero says, nudging the tip of his dirty boot against Credo’s thigh. It leaves a blotch of dusty brown on his pristine white pants.

The thought that Credo would hide anything of true importance from him when all they’ve ever been to each other is brutally honest and open buries a frozen stake in Nero’s heart.

When the sun finally vanishes, leaving the world in somber dusk and the first stars begin to twinkle overhead, Credo answers. “I’d do for you as you’d do for me. Anything to protect my family.”

Nero frowns as the underlying meaning of his words set in. All he can do is nod his head as his minuscule scope of the universe begins to crack where it stands on unsteady ground.

“Vendors should be closed at this hour,” Credo says, finally looking at Nero with a tight smile. “I could go for a popsicle.”

Nero’s laugh is short and dry. “Don’t know about you, but I’m ready to move on from childish things.” He stands up and brushes himself off, looking down at Credo with a lopsided smile. “You know the city better than me.”

Credo blinks up at him, eyebrows creased. “Hardly. Why?”

Without much thinking, Nero blurts out: “where can I find hot girls at?”

He never gets his answer. Instead Nero is reprimanded for reasons that, in hindsight, make sense. He should have clarified his intentions beforehand, but now he will have to deal with the consequence of his blunder whenever he next sees Kyrie. Credo will surely never live it down.

Nero meanders through town without much hope. Fortuna doesn’t have a red light district, neither does it have a surplus of seedy dives where men like Dante could possibly spend their time at. The few establishments that may potentially cater to nefarious deeds after dark are a bust, with owners either turning Nero away at the door due to his uniform or simply ignoring his questions. Still, a brief glance is enough to ascertain the absence of a man in a red coat.

It isn't like he knows what he’d say or do were he to confront him. Nero wants answers but he doesn’t know where to begin, or if Dante would even entertain him long enough to get the questions out there. Being a fairly good judge of character, Nero knows a loose cannon when he sees one. There had been something feral in the way Dante prowled around the garden, attempting and failing to coral his father into a vulnerable position. It was terrifying.

Nero has taken on his fair share of lumbering opponents, but the thought of facing off against Dante again, now that he has seen a more unhinged and lethal style of fighting from him, sets him on edge. He isn’t certain he could win, let alone survive.

With no leads and the night growing colder, Nero begins his long trek home.

The spool is unraveling, and he has no way to stop it. His father is up to something diabolical, Credo is keeping threatening secrets, his potentially homicidal maniac of an uncle has joined the picture, and Nero is powerless to put any of it in its rightful place. With only a sword, a gun, and hardly any rank, he is as useless as a candle in a storm.

Frustration slowly builds within him, pushing towards a reckless release. He finds it, somewhat, in a swarm of demons.

Standing at the mouth of an alleyway, Nero unravels his devil arm and draws his sword. He revs it until flames erupt from the mechanism, its heat a comfort against the skin of his human hand. At the very least he can feel useful, if only for a moment.

He runs headfirst into the writhing mass, hacking and slashing, forgoing his gun in a residential area this late at night. He doesn’t need to put distance between him and his enemies, not tonight, not now, when all he wants is to feel the surge of adrenaline that makes it all worthwhile. Nero draws pleasure from the simple action of cutting and slicing, feels disgust as gore and other fluids sluice down his face and drench his clothes.

It’s therapeutic. It feels like he is doing the right thing, like he made the right choice in joining the Order, because otherwise he wouldn’t have the appropriate materials to get the job done. Of course, there is always the sword his father once gave him, but the blade pales in comparison to Red Queen and her beautifully crafted power.

Nero finishes the skirmish as quickly as it began, killing the last of the hobbling creatures with a stab to the chest. He pulls his sword out and whips it, painting the brick walls with putrid blood.

He freezes up at the sound of slow clapping coming from above.

Nero looks up. The towering residential buildings are connected by an array of empty clotheslines. The moon shines over the space, so bright it nearly eclipses the stars that surround it. There, leaning against a railing, is an unmistakable shadow.

“Pretty impressive, kid.” The man jumps down, landing on his feet with unsurprising ease. Moonlight illuminates his face but creates odd shadows around him, warping the scene with a sense of wrongness. “What’d you say your name was?”

Disregarding his previous hesitance, Nero draws his gun and aims it point blank at Dante’s forehead. “I don’t really feel like telling you.”

“Figured your father would have been more adamant on manners. He always was a stick in the mud.”

Nero cocks the gun. “Sorry, I’m chock full of that teenage rebellion.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m going to ask you a question and you’re going to answer it.”

Dante walks right up to Nero, grabbing his wrist and directing it so that the barrel of his gun is pressed flush against his forehead. “Pretty though for a pretty boy.”

“Why are you here? Why show up now?”

“That’s two questions.”

“Answer them.”

“I’m following a lead,” Dante says with a shrug, clearly unperturbed by the volatile teenager waving a gun in his face. “One that slaps a nice big target on your back.”

Nero hesitates, taking a step back but keeping his weapon trained. “That’s awfully forthcoming.”

“What can I say? I’m a pretty neat guy once you get to know me.”

“Does that mean I’m next on your hit list?”

“Nope. Just the head honcho over at the church.”

“Sanctus.”

“Yeah, that guy. Total creep if you ask me.”

Nero’s mouth works around a sentence he has no time to string together as Dante closes in on him, grabbing hold of his demon arm and maneuvering into a headlock that disables Nero from any form of movement. “My turn to ask questions,” Dante says, breath reeking of alcohol and looking pleased when Nero momentarily ceases struggling. “Why the ever-loving-fuck are you working for these folks? You look like an averagely intelligent kid, but I can’t seem to put two and two together.”

“That’s none of your goddamn business.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. Whatever the Order is hiding under its perv robes is sketch enough to get me all the way on this forsaken island, and I fully intend on getting to the bottom of it. The problem is I didn’t expect my brother to be a part of it, much less his offspring to be serving as an altar boy.”

Nero tries to elbow him, but Dante is unmoved by the blow. “We’ve got nothing to do with any of this.”

“Says the one who tried to kill me.”

“You killed our leader in the middle of service!”

“And you’re serving a militant institution that worships your pappy. Who’s more fucked up here? You’re, what, fifteen? Did they offer you a barrel of virgins for something in turn?”

Nero manages to realign his footing, adjusting his hold well enough to throw Dante to the ground and pin him down with a knee to his neck. “There’s a reason you’re babbling.”

“Observant.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you’re my neph—” The word cuts off when Nero presses his knee further against Dante’s throat, cutting off his air supply.

“You’re no one to me.”

Dante grins, grabbing Nero’s leg and throwing him across the alleyway, his back colliding against a brick wall. “In that case, no need to hold back.”

Staggering up to his feet, Nero braces himself against the wall. The world sways before he gathers his guts again. “You come to my city, ruin everything. Don’t think you’re getting off easy, dickwad.”

“For a Holy knight, you sure got a mouth on you.” Dante forsakes his weapons, putting up his hands in a fighting stance. “Show me what you really got.”

Nero’s expertise rests in his skills as a sword master, not hand to hand combat. He can hold his own in a brawl, sure, but he has a feeling the man before him can hit with the force of a freight train. Keeping his back to the wall, Nero is faced with no other option than to face Dante head on and hope for the best. Any teeth lost in the fight are due to regenerate, but the pain is still very real.

“You know what?” Nero says, holding up his fists in a tight form. “I’m going to make you swallow those words.”

He doesn’t.

Nero gets knocked around in the same fashion he takes down scarecrows on a sunny Wednesday afternoon.

Dante fights differently than he did back in the church, a whole different monster from the one who tried to kill his father in their gardens. There’s ruthlessness in his movements, a near frenzied abandon that speaks to things foreign to anything Nero knows. The savagery with which Dante moves, each jab, punch, kick, and inhuman snarl genuinely pierces Nero with the slightest hint of fear.

To think that this creature is _related_ to him, birthed from the same womb as his father.

The passing thought causes the slightest lapse in concentration and Dante takes it, grabbing Nero by the back of his coat and lifting him into the air, then putting all of his strength into slamming him against the ground. Asphalt cracks under the force, momentarily stunning Nero into stillness before he’s jerked onto his back.

The streetlamp blinds Nero to the figure above him, glowing like a halo along the edges of an evil angel. A fist bunches in his shirt and he’s lifted off the ground, back arching painfully. His hands grab a tight hold of the wrist, but bloodied eyes catch a glimpse of something far worse. Dante holds no gun, no sword, just his fist ready to pummel Nero to a pulp, but the impact never comes.

Time slows and they’re both suspended in a struggle for something neither can fully grasp. 

Anger rolls off Dante like powerful waves of magma, scorching the air around them. 

Hatred pulses, white and sublime, within Nero’s veins.

Something dark and electric swims just beneath the surface of Nero’s skin, whispering incoherently into his ear, begging to be released onto the world. It promises _power_, victory against the demon who dares overstep in his turf. As exhilarating as it is terrifying, Nero clutches onto the burning feeling and claws its way towards it, demanding it to deliver on its unspoken promise.

“You’re just a kid.”

The words push Nero away from the precipice he had been teetering over, air punching its way back into his lungs.

“You’re just a damn kid,” Dante repeats with a shove before raising to his feet in a single fluid motion. He takes a step back, wiping under his nose as he shakes his head.

Nero pushes himself up onto his elbow as the overhead lights spin like a carnival attraction. He blinks rapidly, pinching the corners of his eyes as he tries to focus on Dante, but all he’s met with is empty space.

With no further threat, Nero rolls onto his side and struggles to get back on his feet. His face is just one big pinprick of utter pain, his limbs aching as his knees lock up to keep him from collapsing again. He’s gotten into his fair share of nasty fights, gotten knocked around by masses of infernal monsters, but he’s in a brand-new world of pain.

Certain that he’s alone, Nero staggers over to the wall and rests against it to recover his breath.

At this point, he’s just being bullied.

Straightening himself up, Nero heads off into the night towards the closest sanctuary he knows of.

Hoping over the brick wall behind the orphanage, Nero steals into the kitchen.

He’s careful not to get any blood on anything, making straight for the sinks to rinse himself off. Wrestling off his coat and shirt, he splashes hot water wherever he can without running the risk of flooding the immediate area. He grabs a spare towel and scrubs his face clean.

Sore but nowhere near in as much pain as he had been minutes ago, Nero can finally take a moment to think about what just transpired. Aligning the pieces isn’t hard, but he doesn’t know Dante at all to be able to come up with a clear profile. He has a vague suspicion, judging by Vergil’s own reaction to his brother, to what may be going on inside Dante’s head. If he’s in any way human enough to process emotions, Nero can take a gander at his state of mind and perhaps refine how to approach him the next time an encounter is imminent.

The creaking kitchen door followed by a gasp and rushing footsteps alert Nero that he’s been discovered, and not long after Kyrie is bursting into the kitchen in nothing but her nightgown and worn slippers.

“I’m fine,” he says before she can begin fussing over him. “Just needed to wash up before I got home.”

“The bruise on your back certainly does not agree.” Kyrie crosses the kitchen and places her hands on Nero’s shoulders, inspecting him before turning him to face her. She winces at what she sees and promptly leads him to sit on a wooden stool by the prep table. “It’s late.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You could fall asleep in the middle of an earthquake,” she says.

Kyrie unearths the first aid kit from the storage cabinet and promptly gets to work. Her cool hands on his feverish skin feel delightful, but Nero refrains from leaning too heavily into her touch or else hinder her efforts. She notices, however, and playfully scrapes her nails lightly against his neck. Nero flinches.

“I haven’t seen you since the incident,” Kyrie continues, applying a gel to the cuts on Nero’s face. Unnecessary, but he enjoys the attention, so he says nothing. “Or Credo, for that matter. I’m assuming you both have your hands full trying to track down that man.”

Nero makes a noise of agreement, then thinks better of it. “There’s a lot on our plates.”

“I understand. Being a part of the Order is demanding.”

“It’s not even the Order,” he says, carefully assessing his thoughts before he says them aloud.

Nero tells her everything. Kyrie has been privy to a lot throughout their life together, the mutual exchange of secrets both keep a bastion of continued trust.

She inspects Nero’s devil arm, making certain there are no wounds to tend to, eventually puts it down when she finds none to fuss about.

He stares at her, enthralled by her focus and feeling the faintest of warmth spread throughout his chest. Her hair is a disarrayed mess, haphazardly put up in a bun in her hurry. He thinks it awfully endearing.

“What do you truly make of him?” she says, moving away from Nero only to sit on the nearest countertop. “He’s been nothing but hostile, yet you sound sympathetic.”

“I don’t know. I can’t really explain it.” He looks down at his arm, flexing its long fingers. “Maybe… maybe it’s because he’s just another orphan.” His own words take him aback, a slow realization dawning on him. “The way my own father talks about his life as a child, I didn’t even consider that Dante might feel the same way.” He groans, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands. “It’s just so hard to reconcile someone so monstrous as being almost human, being family. But, I guess, I’m not that different.”

“You’re not a monster,” Kyrie says, ignore him when he waves his demonic arm at her. “Your biology doesn’t define you, Nero. You’re the kindest, most honorable man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“Tell that to my father.”

“I’m certain Mr. Vergil would agree with me.” Nero scoffs and Kyrie shakes her head at him. “Your father’s initial reaction to the man was the fight him. Why?”

Nero thinks about it. Shrugs. “Dad never mentioned having a brother. Maybe there was bad blood between them.”

“Or maybe he thought he had lost him along with his parents and the thought was too difficult to bear.”

He recalls what Vergil had said immediately after Dante had walked out of the front door, how he had thought his brother dead for the past twenty-seven years. A quick calculation puts Vergil at eight years old. “Maybe,” Nero says, jumping through a dozen or so mental hoops, “maybe dad thought he was an impostor. Maybe…”

There are too many variables for him to piece together a suitable explanation for anything. All Nero can briefly piece together is what his father may be potentially experiencing, but that will do him little to no good.

“Talk to your father,” Kyrie says, “perhaps he can shed new light on this stranger.”

Nero reluctantly agrees. There isn’t much else he can do. “Thanks for listening, Kyrie.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, jumping down and pulling him into a crushing hug. “I swear I won’t tell Credo a thing. Not that I expect him to pry on the subject.”

“I trust you.” He returns the hug, lifting her off the ground to her bright delight. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“It’s alright. Zachariah is a new hand. He thought you were stealing.”

“So, he went… and got you?”

“I’m very good at wielding at butcher knife.”

“You’re terrifying. I hope you know that.”

“I sure do.” She presses a light kiss to his cheek before pulling away from his hold with a smile. “Get home safe.”

“Will do,” Nero says, forgoing his ruined shirt and slipping on his coat. “I’ll catch you later?”

“You know where to find me now that services have been suspended.”

“Stabbing helpless knights or defending the world from evil?”

She smacks him on the arm. “Yes.

“Goodnight, Kyrie,” he offers softly before swiftly climbing over the back wall again, leaning over it as she waves at him from a distance. He only lets himself drop once the back door to the kitchen closes, the sound of multiple latches bringing a smile to his face.

Scratching the back of his head as he turns for home, Nero lets the goofy grin he’d been holding take over now that there’s no one to see. If there’s a spring in his step, he doesn’t give it much thought. All he knows that it’s nothing short of rejuvenating, seeing Kyrie again after so long. 

Her spunky tenderness is something Nero can never picture himself living without, among other things such as the way she bites on her tongue while concentrating, or bites down on the nearest inanimate object when she’s mad – many a pencil have been lost in the wake of her wrath.

The emotional whiplash this night has brought him has left him afloat, carelessly tossing him about a raging storm of feelings he can barely save himself from. From his father, his uncle, Credo, to Kyrie, Nero is at a loss of where to even begin. 

He cannot possibly save everyone, no matter how much he wishes he could. It’s just unrealistic. He also cannot continue to dump his emotional turmoil on Kyrie when he has nowhere left to go. Yes, Kyrie has turned him away before, asserting that she’s in no state to listen to Nero’s whining – this much he expects from her and her honesty. Granted, she’ll return days later with an apology and asking him to please say what he needed to.

Truly, Nero thinks to himself, Kyrie is an angel among men.

The sound of fluttering wings makes Nero stop and look over his shoulder, but he sees nothing on the dimly lit road. It had sounded vaguely bug-like, but the size it must be to create such a loud noise unthinkable. Whatever it may have been, however, is not enough to dampen Nero’s spirits.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi or just see me gush about stuff on twitter at **[astramaxima](https://twitter.com/astramaxima)!**


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